Who you are is not where you've been (you're still an innocent)
by Jinxgirl
Summary: A collection of interconnected stories of the interactions between Rachel and Santana as children. Pezberry kidfic.
1. Chapter 1

First day

Not quite five-year-old Rachel Berry looked all around herself, her eyes wide and bright with interest at her new and rather engaging surroundings. Holding each of her father's hands, pressing back into their legs, she peeked around the doorway into the kindergarten classroom, taking in the brightly colored posters and hanging planet mobiles, the long white dry-erase board, and the activity centers neatly arranged around the room, wanting to walk up to, inspect, and touch almost everything she saw.

There was an area with art supplies and easels, a kitchen area with tables, chairs, and a sink and refrigerator, a table filled with sand, shovels, and pails, a corner with pillows, blankets, and books, a "play house" area with what looked like costumes and dress up clothes, a corner filled with blocks, puppets, and toy ponies…Rachel wanted to play with everything she saw. It all looked so inviting and sparked her imagination with possible scenarios even at a glance. She was certain that whatever it was they would do in school, it would be even more fun than she had anticipated.

"Doesn't this look exciting, princess?" Rachel's first daddy asked her, bending down towards her to smile directly into her eyes, and her second daddy squeezed her hand, beaming down fondly at her as well.

"You're going to have such a good time, sweetheart, you're going to be our shining little star, just like always. Just look at all the new friends you'll make here!"

As an only child, this was a very exciting possibility for Rachel indeed. She turned her head, observing all the other children who had arrived as well so far, and her smile grew wide with renewed hope at her prospects. There was a solemn little Asian boy, standing in front of his mother holding her hand as he too peered around the room much in the same manner that Rachel was, cautiously eyeing the other children. There was a small little boy wearing funny clothes, oddly formal clothes, also holding his mother's hand, with an upturned nose and bright blue eyes. This little boy seemed particularly anxious, turning a tearful face into his mother's pant leg repeatedly as he whispered urgently to her, seeming to be asking her to be able to stay. Another rather tall little boy with tousled brown hair and a slightly chunky frame was already lumbering around the classroom, barely glancing back at his own tearful mother in the doorway as he headed straight for the blocks. A dark-skinned little girl with her hair in two pigtails and several colorful plastic necklaces and bracelets was sticking her lip out, hands on her hips as she eyed the other children skeptically, and a little boy with most of his dark hair buzzed off was already racing over to join the brunette boy at the blocks, scrambling for the ones he preferred and shoving at the other boy to get them.

Rachel was sure that one of these children, or maybe even all of them, would be her very best new friends. But as interested as she was in all of them, there was one child in particular who commanded her attention- and that of almost every other child in the room, as soon as they heard her arrive in the doorway, just behind Rachel and her fathers.

"I DON'T WANNA STAY HERE! I don't wanna go to school! I don't like kindergarten! Kindergarten is stupid, I wanna go home, QUIERO IR A CASA MAMI! ESTA ES UNA ESTUPIDEZ!"

Automatically Rachel turned to look behind herself for the source of the yelling voice, seeing that it belonged to another little girl. The other child was a Latina, small and slim, though not quite as much so as Rachel herself, with long, wavy hair and dimples in her cheeks. Rachel thought she was very pretty, and normally would have immediately informed the other little girl of this, but it was doubtful in that moment that the other child would have even heard her say so. The little girl was clearly angry and upset, and currently she was grabbing at her mother's arm, digging her feet into the ground near her mother's and clinging as she attempted with her slight weight to drag her mother back out the doorway with her own meager strength. For her part, her mother, a rather attractive Latina with lighter hair and skin than her daughter, remained calm as she addressed her.

"You know that you cannot come home, Santana. You know your mami has work today and cannot stay with you, and you know what your abuela would say if I took you home to her when you are not sick. We have talked of this, mija, you know you are a big girl now and must attend school," she was telling her, but the little girl- Santana, her mother had called her- seemed to be having none of it.

"I don't care! I wanna go home! Take me home, mami, take me home!" she hollered, pulling at her mother's arms and tilting her head back until the tips of her long hair brushed the small of her back. "Home!"

"Santana, look at everything there is for you to play with here, it looks like fun," her mother was telling her as she continued to calmly attempt to pry herself from the girl's grasp, shaking her head at her. "There are other children, you will enjoy playing with them. It is their first day too, mija, I am sure they are also scared or nervous to be here-"

"I'M NOT SCARED! I DON'T WANNA PLAY WITH THEM, THEY'RE STUPID, EVERYTHING IS STUPID AND I HATE IT!" Santana shrieked, now wrapping her arms hard around her mother's waist and burying her face in her side, as though she expected that she could anchor her mother from moving further. "It's better at home! Don't wanna play with these ugly stupid toys and these stupid ugly-face kids, I wanna go home!"

Rachel looked up somewhat anxiously then at her fathers, her eyes round with shock at the other child's words and actions. She could not remember ever screaming at her anyone in her whole entire life, let alone in front of a whole room of people and other kids. She certainly had never told her fathers no in such a mean way, and she had never yelled at anyone that they were ugly or stupid. This other little girl was making her very, very nervous, and she clung to their hands, pressing closer against them, even as she continued to stare at her, also somewhat fascinated.

For Santana's mother, however, this seemed to be a fairly typical occurrence, or at least one that didn't distress her. "Santana Mariana Lopez, you are being very rude," she scolded her, even a she continued to pry her daughter off her. "I know you do not want to go to school, mija, and I am sorry, but you do not have a say in this. You will be all right, Santana, I promise you, you will have fun. I am leaving now, but I love you, carina, and I will be thinking of you. Be good, mi Corazon."

As her mother succeeded in prying her off of her at last, Rachel watched, still grimly fascinated, and was startled as the little girl's dark scowl dissolved, and Santana abruptly burst into tears. Now howling in an entirely different manner and tone, she grabbed for her mother's arm again, tears streaming down her face as she pulled at her.

"Mami, nooo, don't leave, I don't wanna be here! Don't leave, I wanna go too!"

"Santana, I promise you'll be all right," her mother told her again; the teacher, whom Rachel remembered as having earlier introduced herself as Mrs. Turner, was coming over to them then, addressing Santana as well, but Santana ignored her, still crying as she continued to plead with her mother.

"I won't! I hate you, mami!"

Rachel's mouth dropped open, and she looked back with horror at her fathers, unable to even imagine saying such a thing to them, before she looked back with some anxiety at Santana, expecting her to have something horrible done to her for saying such a mean, awful thing. But Santana's mother still seemed unbothered; in fact, she was still smiling.

"I am sorry to hear that, mija, but I still love you."

She leaned down, giving Santana a hug and a kiss, before prying her grasping hands off her one more time and backing out the door. As Rachel's own fathers reluctantly kissed her goodbye, following after her, she watched with continued astonishment as Santana, howling, threw herself to the floor, kicking and screaming and crying so loudly that Rachel began to think very seriously and with real concern what damage she was doing to her vocal chords. She would surely never be able to sing like Rachel could if she kept crying and yelling in that way, and Rachel, concerned over this, began to inch towards her, intending to inform her of this.

But Santana saw her approach, and whether or not she knew what it was that Rachel had in mind, she wasn't about to let her get any closer to try it. Now directing her screams at her, she kicked out one foot towards Rachel, as though to scare her back from her.

"STOP LOOKING AT ME, YOU SHORT MONKEY GIRL!"

Rachel stopped, then backed a step away, blinking several times and trying unsuccessfully to conceal her hurt. She wasn't sure why Santana would call her that- she knew she was short, but she didn't look or smell like a monkey. Did she?

She considered apologizing, though she wasn't sure why she would be, and leaving Santana alone, but in the end her natural curiosity won over her hesitation, and she informed the girl, "That wasn't nice to call me that. I am not a monkey…your name is Santana? I'm Rachel Berry. Why are you still yelling, Santana, your mom has left and she can't hear you anymore."

"Yes you are, you're an ugly monkey girl! I hate her, she left me and I hate her! I hate it here, I hate school, I hate my mami and I hate YOU!" Santana continued to scream, banging her fists into the ground and thrashing around, small legs kicking out, as her chest heaved with loud sobs.

Rachel hurriedly backed away from range of her limbs, still eyeing her with unflagging interest, some fear, and growing sympathy as well. Even though the other girl was being so mean to her and saying such terrible things about her mother, she was so obviously upset, maybe even scared, that Rachel found herself unable to be too upset about it. She watched as the teacher came over to Santana and bent over her, talking, as she hauled her to her feet and into a chair in the corner, where she gave her further instructions as Santana continued to cry and intermittently yell out loudly. As the teacher continued to talk to Santana, stopping to shoot Rachel a reassuring smile and to instruct the other children trickling in to go so down at the small tables and color for a few minutes, Rachel obeyed, but continued to glance back frequently at the still-bawling Santana in her isolated corner, especially after the teacher rejoined the other children and left Santana sitting alone.

It didn't seem right to Rachel, to leave her sitting by herself when she was crying, even if she was being so mean. Maybe Santana didn't know her mom was going to come back for her after school. Maybe she thought she was being punished for being bad. If Rachel thought her daddies had left her forever, she would probably cry and be scared too, even if she would never say ugly words to people like that and try to kick them.

Rachel decided then, as she was coloring, that she would give the picture to Santana and write her a note on the back too. She was proud of her ability to read and write, having taught herself already, and so she flipped the coloring page that had been set out on the table for her over and as carefully as she could manage, began to write Santana a note.

"Your mom will come back. It will be ok. I am not mad and I hope you do not hate me now," she printed, then wrote her name and drew a small star beside it. Pleased with her work, Rachel waited until she was given permission to go to her cubby. Hers was placed beside Santana's, she noted, and she slipped Santana's inside.

But when Santana was released from the corner later in that day and shown her cubby by their teacher, Rachel watched her take out the picture and flip over the back, squinting at the words written there. When Santana frowned, then shrugged, balling the paper up and tossing it away, Rachel's heart sank. It took her the rest of the day to realize, when Santana did not acknowledge her in any sort of way afterward, that just because Rachel knew how to read, didn't mean that Santana did. She had probably not understand a single word that Rachel had spent so much time writing out.

She wanted to tell her what the paper had said aloud, but in the end, Rachel remained quiet, making no further approaches. She did, however, note that at the end of the school day, it was not Santana's mother who came for her, but a stern-faced older woman. From within the circle of her fathers' arms, she noted that the lady coming for Santana did not pick her up and hug her, or even reach for her hand; she simply inclined her chin for Santana to follow her, but not without first giving a level glare in the direction of Rachel and her fathers as her eyes shifted between the two men. With a snapped command at Santana to hurry, she hustled the other child out the door, leaving Rachel, still in between her fathers, watching, wondering.


	2. Chapter 2

Time out  
From where she had been unceremoniously escorted to the "time out" corner of her kindergarten classroom, five-year-old Santana Lopez was not at all happy. In fact, it would not be in the least bit inaccurate to say that she was furious. Having been sent to time out for pouring sand down Noah Puckerman's hair, she was now missing out on art time, and that was one of her very favorite activity centers.

Well, favorite after snack time, and playhouse time, and recess, and PE. But it was still one of her VERY FAVORITES, and she was missing it and it wasn't even her fault. That stupid Noah had pulled her hair so she had just HAD to pour sand on him and he wasn't even in trouble! The teacher had told her to be quiet and think about what she was supposed to be doing to behave, but Santana had no intention of following through.

"IT'S NOT FAIR!" she hollered, kicking her feet against the wall, as furious tears streamed down her face. "I WANNA PAINT PICTURES! IT'S NOT FAIR!"

She continued to kick her feet, not even comforted by the fact that her cool new light up shoes were flashing with every kick. Santana makes absolutely no effort to be quiet and in fact cries loudly, practically howling her outrage.

"I HATE YOU NOAH!"

It was not unusual for Santana to be found in this corner at any given time, and it was only her first week of school. So far she had been assigned time out for trying to bribe Tina Cohen-Chang out of her snack on pudding day, for scribbling over Finn Hudson's paper when he said that her "s" in her efforts to write her name looked "smashed on the ground like a snake," and for laughing too loudly and calling out what she had considered very funny things about the books that were read to them during story time. Santana couldn't seem to do anything fun without getting in trouble. Yesterday she had even had to sit on the blacktop during recess because Mercedes Jones had tattled on her that she had scratched her when they were fighting over the last available swing- even though Mercedes had hit Santana too. School was definitely not impressing Santana so far, and each time she found herself in trouble, she made her displeasure well known and unmistakable to everyone around her, be that through her fists, her voiced protests, or a storm of tears.

It was only Thursday and already the other children in the classroom were used to Santana being separated from them to carry out her indignation until she finally wore herself down enough to join them, sulking and sniffling, until the next activity begun that would catch her attention and recapture her enthusiasm. Those activities were frequent in coming, for in all reality, Santana loved the majority of kindergarten and all it entailed. But until she could wind herself down and rejoin, the entire world and every single person, event, and object in it, most of all her kindergarten classroom and all it encompassed, seemed horribly mean and nasty to her, and so she hollered and wept furiously, attempting to draw as much attention to herself as she possibly could.

This never worked in her own home, of course. When she was with her mami, Maribel, her mami would simply sit several feet away from her and watch her calmly, arms folded over her chest, without touching her or yelling at her, just waiting for her to calm down. Sometimes she would tell her that she would talk with her when Santana had finished, if Santana yelled at her directly, but usually she would simply watch her, never getting mad or upset- just waiting. Once Santana had finished, her mother would pick her up, wipe off her face and help her blow her nose, and then hug her and kiss her- before making Santana do whatever it was she had just declared she was refusing to do. She was never mad at her, but it never got her out of doing anything either.

With her abuela it was even worse. Her abuela was the one who would have Santana after school and sometimes all the way until it was bed time, if both her mami and papi had to work, and sometimes on weekends too. Santana knew that her abuela had no patience for her; even if Santana had hurt herself, or was very sad or scared, Abuela would give raise her eyebrows and lift her chin at her, shaking her head before saying the same thing she always said when Santana cried.

"Dry it up, Santana, there is no good reason to carry on. You are finished now, understand?"

And full out screaming and yelling? Santana would never dare to do it to test getting her way with her abuela, for she already, even at five, knew what the outcome of that would be. But for the times where she just couldn't help herself, and could come up with no other way to express herself- times that still occurred pretty frequently for Santana- her abuela would usually entirely ignore her, walking out of the room with her head high and her back firm and straight, and refuse to come back within Santana's sight until she was begging her to return and promising to stop. And if Santana behaved in this way in public, she knew she could expect being yelled at, called stupid or devil-child or ungrateful little troll-girl, and usually slapped or spanked as well.

She had figured out the rules for tantrums with her mami and her abuela, but school, she hadn't yet figured out. And so Santana threw herself into it with gusto, shrieking out her rage so there was no chance of anyone around her mistaking it.

"I HATE NOAH! THIS ISN'T FAIR! NO FAIRRRRR!"

Their teacher, Mrs. Turner, was behaving similarly to Santana's mother, for the most part ignoring Santana as she continued to pass out paint, brushes, and containers of water to the other children, several times passing Santana by. The only thing she did to acknowledge Santana was to tell her, "Santana, you know the rules about throwing sand at people and you also know the rules about kicking. When you are able to follow the rules of our class, you may join us."

"I DON'T WANNA FOLLOW RULES! I HATE YOUR RULES!" Santana hollered back at her, and when she saw that this was simply causing Mrs. Turner to turn her focus back to the other children, her tears intensified. Why wasn't anyone paying any attention to her? Didn't someone hear her? Didn't anyone notice that she was mad and sad and missing out on one of the very best activities? Didn't anyone care at all?

But no, the other kids were either ignoring her, engrossed in their own painting, or else sneaking sideways looks at her, bothered or in the case of Finn, Kurt Hummel, and Tina, even intimidated by all the noise she was making. And that Noah Puckerman was even smirking at her, haphazardly slapping paint on his paper like he didn't even care what he was making at all. He was making ugly stuff, was what he was making, ugly black and red lines and squiggly shapes like a stupid boy, that was all. He wasn't even making a good painting and he still got to paint when Santana didn't, and that was NOT fair.

At this realization, Santana let out a renewed howl, drumming her heels into the floor. "I HATE YOU NOAH!"

Eyes squeezed shut, mouth open, she bawled, burying her face in the crook of her arm as she braced it against the back of her chair, still steadily kicking her feet into the ground. When she finally lifted her head after a minute, rubbing her fists into her eyes and beginning to sniffle back her tears and snuffle in an attempt to stop her now-runny nose, she realized that someone had finally dared to draw close to her and was standing a foot or so away, looking at her with her brow puckered, her head tilted to the side as she regarded Santana with a mixture of perplexed curiosity, slight apprehension, but mostly, with a strange, heartfelt sympathy.

It was Rachel Berry staring at her. Santana didn't like many of the other children in her class- Finn and Kurt were sissies, Mercedes was too bossy, and Puck was always picking on her. Rachel annoyed her just as much, but Rachel was different than the other kids. Santana didn't like them, but with Rachel, she didn't understand most of what she did or said. The other girl was weird.

For one thing, she was always dressing in skirts and dresses with tights instead of play clothes, which meant boys would laugh and say they could see her panties even though they couldn't, and she wouldn't swing on swings or play on the slides or jungle gym or do much in PE because of it. Rachel always raised her hand like you were supposed to and did what the teacher said and didn't push anyone at the playground or talk during story time, and she got picked a lot to hand out things to the other kids or to be activity or hall monitor. She was a suck up, Santana thought, but what was even worse was how she talked about things like a grown up and wanted to tell everyone boring stuff they didn't know, like how Santana's lunch was not nutritious and how it would make her sleepy or "hyperactive" after she had eaten.

Santana didn't even know what that meant, but she also didn't care. She had demonstrated this to Rachel by grabbing Rachel's yogurt and flicking yogurt on her sweater, which had earned her another time out.

Now this Rachel that her teacher seemed to like way better than Santana was standing there looking at her, and Santana didn't know what she wanted or what she was going to do. The girl was small enough that the top of her head while standing was just barely above the top of Santana's while sitting slumped over in a chair, and as Santana glared at her, her lower lip stuck out unconsciously, Rachel continued to regard her, finally gesturing towards Santana in what was clearly intended to be a helpful manner.

"I'm sorry you're sad," Rachel told her softly, though Santana didn't fail to notice that she was not quite bold enough to approach her closely enough where Santana could hit her, if she were to swing out her arms or legs at her. "My dads say it makes you feel better if you cry when you're sad. Do you feel better now, Santana?"

This was definitely not a reaction that Santana was used to encountering after having thrown a tantrum, especially from another child…especially from a child like Rachel Berry. For one thing, she didn't understand what Rachel meant by saying her "dads," because from what Santana understood, children had one dad or no dads at all. How come Rachel got two when Santana didn't?

Then there was the part about feeling better for crying. This was definitely something Santana had never heard or experienced; most of what she has heard in relation to crying is that her abuela wants her to stop. For a moment she just blinks at her, confused by the little girl's response, but then she glowers back at her, including Rachel in her anger, although it had lessened from rage to sullen sulking now.

"It's not fair," she informed the other child, sniffling, as though Rachel had not heard her yelling this out for the past ten minutes. "It's not fair and it's stupid. Everyone's mean. Mean and dumb and stupid. I wanna paint. It's not fair."

She had half expected Rachel to try to talk to her like her teacher used to do some of the other times she was sent to time out this week, explaining to her why it actually was fair and what Santana had done that was being punished. This sort of response would have been exactly the cue Santana was looking for to start herself up with yelling again, providing her with new ammunition and provocation to work herself up- but it wasn't what Rachel gave her. Instead, Rachel continued to frown at her faintly, eyes squinted not unkindly as she looked Santana in the eye.

"Your nose is running," she told the larger little girl, her tone very matter of fact. "Did you know that? You should blow your nose, because that is very unsanitary. It has germs and it gets your clothes nasty. My dads say it can make people sick. It doesn't look very nice either. Do you want me to get you a tissue?"

Santana blinked again, unsure of what it was that Rachel was telling her; she didn't know about "unsanitary" or "germs," and she knew she wasn't sick. There was also that mention again of having two dads, which didn't make any sense to her either. All she understood of what had been said to her was that her nose was running and it was nasty, which she took to mean that Rachel was making fun of her. Kicking out at her, although Rachel was too far back for her foot to come anywhere near touching her, Santana glowered at her, her voice rising again.

"I am not nasty! I am not sick! And you don't get two dads, that's not fair! You only get one!"

It seemed especially unfair to Santana, that Rachel would get two dads, when she herself barely saw the one father that she had. He was almost never home, leaving for work before she went to school and coming home after she was asleep at night, and when she was home he was too tired and busy to pay much attention to her, even if really, really wanted him to, or even if she was bad and tried to make him have to.

"I didn't say that you're nasty or sick, I know you're not sick, you've just been sad," Rachel tells Santana, though there is now apprehension in her tone and expression as she sees that the other girl is angry, and she backs a step away. "I do have two dads though. That can happen sometimes. It's different but it's okay, it's not bad, even if sometimes people think that. My dads told me it's not. So yes, I do have two dads, but I don't have a mom. I do have a mom but she doesn't live with me and I don't meet her. My dads say she really loves me though and that's why she gave me to them, because she knew they'd take very good care of me. And they do. My dads love me more than anything…did you want me to get you a tissue, Santana? Because your nose is still running. Do you know how to blow your nose yet by yourself? I do, my dads taught me how. It's okay if you don't though, I can show you."

Trying to process all of this, and still not understanding the majority of what was being said to her, Santana attempted to continue to glare at Rachel, but her efforts were half-hearted now, almost a pout. "I don't wanna. You talk too much," she declared, crossing her arms over her chest and sniffling somewhat defiantly. "All you do is talk, talk, talk."

The same had been said for Santana many times before; she was in fact echoing her abuela, albeit in a pouty rather than harsh or exasperated tone that she usually heard it voiced in. Rachel did not seem to be hurt or offended by her statement, however. She simply nodded, even giving Santana a small smile.

"I know I do. Everyone says I talk a lot. I guess I just have a lot to say. It's okay if you don't want to listen to me though, I know people usually don't. I just wanted to tell you that I'm sorry you didn't get to paint today, and that you're right, I don't think it was fair. You broke the rules so you do have to get in trouble for it, that's fair, but Noah broke the rules too, I saw him, so you're right, it wasn't fair because he didn't get in trouble too." She paused, tilting her head again, and took a cautious step towards Santana. "Do you want me to tell Mrs. Turner that Noah broke the rules too?"

Santana considered this, eyeing Rachel somewhat doubtfully, but the little girl seemed sincere in her offer, although Santana could not quite understand why she would be, when they were not friends. After a few seconds Santana nodded, sniffling and rubbing her fists against her eyes one more time.

"Yeah. Tell her. Tell her how he's stupid and ugly too. Tell her how he should never get recess or snack or play time or anything fun ever, ever again."

"Well, I don't think I'll tell her all of that, because that's not very nice," Rachel frowned, shaking her head. "But I'll tell her it wasn't fair. You…you can have my picture, okay?"

She walked away for a few moments to her own little table in the art area, returning with a freshly painted picture in one hand, a tissue in the other. She held both out to Santana for her inspection, still staying just far back enough that it would be difficult for Santana to hit her, without getting out of her seat.

"Here you go…it's for you."

Santana looked the picture over somewhat critically, not reaching for it at first. It was a painting of what looked like the night sky, glittering with the bright yellow moons and stars. She thought it was pretty, but she neither thanked Rachel nor reached to take it right away. Instead, she pointed out, "There's only one moon, you dummy."

"Actually, there are many moons," Rachel answered, though her face registered brief hurt at the "dummy" part of Santana's response. "There are nine planets and most of them have moons too, did you know that? So maybe they are other moons. I just thought they were nice though…do you still want it?"

Santana didn't respond at first, still eyeing the picture. When she just barely inclined her head in a nod, Rachel smiled widely, her eyes lighting up with a happiness that somewhat startled the other child.

"Good. You can have it. I like stars…I'm going to be one, one day."

Santana took the picture from her without comment, along with the tissue, and shoved the picture beneath her chair, crumpling the tissue in her fist and swiping it under her nose before letting it fall to the floor. Rachel opened her mouth then, perhaps about to instruct her how to properly blow her nose, but then seemed to think better of it, instead giving another, albeit slightly smaller smile as she inched just a little bit closer to the other child in her chair.

"Santana? I-I'm going to hug you now," she stammered, and before Santana could protest, her arms were around her neck, the back of the chair in between them nevertheless not preventing her from attempting to squeeze her to her chest.

For a second or two, Santana endured the hug, as confused as she was by it. She was not a naturally cuddly child, offering out affection and seeking it out for herself from others, although she did enjoy any such attention given to her. She was not used to anyone hugging her for any reason other than her mother, so this behavior from a girl she barely knew and wasn't very friendly with so far was startling, even somewhat unsettling. But she probably would have let Rachel hug her without comment, even if she didn't hug her back- if it wasn't for Noah Puckerman.

From over Rachel's shoulder Santana can see Noah smirking at them, making faces like he was throwing up. Santana didn't know if it was because it was Rachel specifically hugging her, or if he was just trying to make fun of her and make her mad regardless of what she might be doing in the moment. But it was easiest to come to the conclusion that it was Rachel hugging her that was drawing his teasing, and her anger flared up anew, now directed at the other little girl instead.

Without a second thought she pushed Rachel back from her, her voice rising almost to a shout as she snapped at her, "Go away, Garbage Face!"

She watched as Rachel stumbled back, almost falling, her face turning bright red as tears came into her eyes. Some of the other children had been watching and giggled, whispering "Garbage Face" when Rachel passed by. And although Mrs. Turner, having seen them, informed Santana that she would be getting a note sent home with her that day for her behavior, nor would she be leaving the quiet corner any time soon, Santana didn't pay attention to this. She was still eyeing Rachel, beginning to feel just a little bad for what she had done.

The girl was annoying and weird and said things that didn't make sense. But she had painted her a pretty picture and been nice to her when everyone else was being mean. Santana decided, as she continued to watch Rachel, that it was again, all Noah's fault. The minute that teacher let her out of the corner, first thing she was going to do was run up and throw sand in his face all over again. It would serve him right.

Author note: Not every story is going to be about Santana having a tantrum, but the way I see it, it was probably common for her as a young child, given how easily she cried and how mean she could get even as a teenager. Someone who cries over not winning Breadstix or having no tanning as a popular teen probably had a lot of tantrums as a five year old, lol


	3. Chapter 3

Thumbs

For as far back as she could remember, Santana had known better than to defy her abuela. Sometimes she lost that knowledge when overcome with her emotions, or when dissolving into a meltdown, but on a typical interaction, even at five years old, she knew that her abuela, unlike her mami or her papi, could not be argued or reasoned with. What her abuela wanted and what she told Santana to do or stop doing had to be obeyed, and it had to be obeyed quickly.

But there was one thing that Santana just couldn't seem to stop doing, no matter how many times her abuela demanded for her to stop, no matter how many times she pulled harshly at her arm or even slapped her for it. It had become such an unconscious habit that she couldn't seem to break it, even though her abuela had told her that it was babyish, ugly, and embarrassing, even when she threatened to take away her dessert and snacks for the day every time she saw her do it again. Nothing seemed to get through to Santana on this- until Rachel Berry.

"Santana?" the smaller little girl asked, peering at Santana with the same wide-eyed, cautious intrigue that she always seemed to be directing Santana's way, no matter how many times Santana glared or snapped at her or otherwise indicated that she was not welcome around her. "Did you know that you are sucking your thumb?"

It was yet another day of Santana having been sent to time out, this time after having scribbled in frustration over Finn's paper when he told her, AGAIN, that her "S"'s looked like squished snakes laying on the ground. She had subsided in her initial usual yelling and was now slumped, sulking, in her chair, eyes half closed as she sniffled repeatedly, regaining control of herself. She had noticed Rachel watching her and ignored her; this too was fairly typical now, for the other little girl to be lurking near every time that Santana was separated from the group. But this newest comment from Rachel was something new, and Santana's eyes shifted towards her, regarding her as she realized that Rachel was right. She was sucking her thumb again, without having realized it at all.

Had her abuela been the one pointing this out to her, Santana would have immediately removed the offending thumb and attempted to either behave as though it had never been there in the first place, or else attempt to distract her abuela with especially good or impressive behavior. But it was only Rachel Berry, so Santana kept it exactly where it was, attempting to simultaneously scowl at her and also speak around the thumb.

"Uh huh. So?"

"Did you know that sucking your thumb is very bad for you?" Rachel persisted, her head cocked to the side, her brow furrowed, eyebrows knitted together as though this were a very concerning possibility to her indeed. She took a hesitant step closer to Santana, nodding towards her thumb, so the little girl would have no doubt what she was referring to. "It can make your permanent teeth crooked and they may not fit in your mouth right anymore."

Santana stared at her, considering this, and removed her thumb from her mouth, running her index finger over her front teeth. Thus assured that her teeth were indeed still intact in her mouth as usual, she popped her thumb back into her mouth deliberately, renewing her scowl in Rachel's direction.

"Does not. My teeth are fine," she said from around the thumb. "Go 'way Monkey Girl."

That had become a standard nickname for Rachel, one that Rachel would normally cringe at. But the other little girl seemed so concerned that she barely seemed to register the name, instead taking another step closer, her eyes widening with renewed urgency, her voice rising slightly.

"No, Santana, it really, really is bad for you. Your teeth will be crooked and you will need braces and those are expensive and they hurt. It could even damage your gums and your bones. Plus it will make your thumb white and wrinkly and you could accidentally bite yourself. There are also germs on your hands and fingers that could make you sick by getting them in your mouth. It really is bad to suck your thumb. Why don't you ask Mrs. Turner for a peppermint instead?"

"Don't care, go away," Santana repeated, thumb still intact, as she aimed a half-hearted kick in Rachel's direction. But Rachel was not to be deterred.

"Santana, you don't' want to get sick, do you? You don't want crooked teeth and bad bones-"

"I said go AWAY…Thumbelina!" Santana kicked out at Rachel again, even as she started to giggle from around her thumb, dimples coming into view. She started to kick out at her more playfully now than angry, her thumb shifted to the corner of her mouth with her laughter. "Thumbelina! Thumbelina, Thumbelina, you're a short little Thumbelina!"

Rachel backed away then, even as she continued to cast worried glances back at Santana's thumb, all the way until the teacher came to tell Santana she could rejoin the others and Rachel saw for herself that she had removed the offending thumb, getting busy interacting with the other children. For the rest of the day, every time Santana passed Rachel, she would call her "Thumbelina" and snicker all over again. But Rachel found herself not minding it; she was even secretly pleased. Because wasn't Thumbelina a pretty fairy, even if that wasn't what Santana meant by it at all?


	4. Chapter 4

Nap time

There were few things that Rachel strongly disliked about school, but nap time was definitely one of them. For one thing, she was never truly sleepy; although she was used to rising early even on weekends, wanting to make the most of her day and make certain that her usual routine was accomplished in a timely fashion, she was also used to going to bed early, which meant she was rarely tired until her scheduled bedtime. Having to take a nap, or at least lie quietly and pretend to take a nap, right in the middle of the day, where she was at her most energetic, meant that she was being thrown off her schedule enough that she sometimes wasn't tired when it was bedtime, which set her off for her schedule the next day as well. For Rachel, this was quite distressing.

For another thing, she considered herself, at newly five years old, much too mature for something as "childish" as napping. She could read books with chapters already, if they were short ones, she could write the entire alphabet and spell too, and she never, ever wet the bed at night or had accidents. She could almost reach the freezer section of the refrigerator if she stretched, and one time she had managed to pour a glass of orange juice without spilling. All of this, Rachel was sure, indicated that she was more than ready to stop taking afternoon naps.

But it was required of her to do so anyway, and she knew that she could not defy a teacher's requests, even if it seemed silly to her. Rachel generally used her naptime to lie quietly and run through song lyrics in her head, and she sometimes even made a game of humming as softly as she could under her breath, waiting to see how long it would be until another child noticed- if they ever did at all.

Santana Lopez, however, seemed to share Rachel's dislike of naps without her particular reasons for it; it seemed not about not being tired, in Santana's case, or about feeling she was too old or mature for them. As she plainly voiced, more days than not, Santana disdained naps simply because she didn't want to take them. And as was usually the case with Santana, she didn't obediently follow any instructions given that she disagreed with, like Rachel; she instead made her thoughts and feelings plainly known about the matter.

"I don't want to take a nap!" she could be heard declaring most afternoons, hands on her hips, chin lifted defiantly as she attempted to glare their teacher down. "I'm not gonna! Naps are stupid!"

Anything, everything, and everyone that Santana was displeased with, Rachel had long ago learned, was generally deemed by her to be stupid, ugly, or both. Rachel herself had been called both several times, but although Santana usually seemed to forget her own insults and the intensity of her anger by the next day, it nevertheless stung every time those particular barbs were aimed in her direction.

The irony of Santana's daily protest against naps was that once Mrs. Turner had managed to coax her into lying down on one of the naps, she was usually the first one to fall asleep and the most reluctant to awaken, often actually whining that she was sleepy when it was announced that nap time was over. It didn't make sense to Rachel, that she would argue that she didn't want a nap and then seem to want and enjoy it once she had started to sleep, but she never asked her about it. Another thing that Rachel was learning was that asking Santana Lopez questions rarely got her the answers she was searching for, and more often got her yelled at or something she was holding snatched away from her and thrown across the room.

Rachel's usual nap time partner, the one she would share a mat with, was Kurt Hummel, mainly because he was quiet, never tried to poke her or whisper to her, and more importantly, because like Rachel, he was usually left without a partner for most activities that required them. Rachel wasn't sure why the other children didn't seem to like Kurt. She liked to play dress up and house and ponies too, and she liked to paint rainbows and butterflies. Just because Kurt was a boy didn't mean he shouldn't like doing those things too, at least in Rachel's opinion.

But one afternoon Santana's usual partner for nap time, a fairly quiet boy named Matt Rutherford, was absent, leaving Santana the only child in the classroom without someone to share her mat with. For the first time, Santana's focus that afternoon was not on whether or not she wanted to take a mat, but rather the fact that during her nap, there would be no one resting directly beside her.

"Matt's not here," she announced, looking around at the other children expectantly as they began to pair off like usual, going to lie down on their mats as they had been instructed to. "I don't got no one on my mat with me. Who wants to share with me?"

The other children didn't meet her eyes, and no one rushed to answer her. In fact, they started to lie down hurriedly, rolling onto their sides away from her or outright closing their eyes, and Santana did not fail to notice this. Still standing in the middle of the mattresses, arms crossed over her chest, she huffed, repeating herself a little more loudly.

"I said who's gonna share with me? I don't got a partner!"

There was still no verbal response to Santana's words from anyone, even as their nonverbal responses spoke very clearly about their complete lack of enthusiasm and consent to this. Santana appeared to get this message as her eyebrows slanted sharply towards her nose, and she scowled, her voice rising further.

"I don't wanna nap by myself! I need a partner! Why are you all being so STUPID?!"

Although no reply was forthcoming from the other children, Rachel was pretty sure she knew why it was that no one was stepping forward. Although Santana could be funny and fun to play with on the playground, and most of the boys seemed to enjoy playing tag or other noisy, active games with her, most of the girls didn't seem to like Santana very much; ones like Mercedes often argued and fought with her, and others were afraid of her. And everyone knew that Santana kicked and stole blankets in her sleep, and several knew from experience that when Santana kicked, it really hurt. None of the other children were eager to risk a kick from Santana Lopez- even an accidental one.

But no one was volunteering this as an explanation to her, and Rachel, eyeing Santana out the corner of her eye from where she lay on her mat with Kurt, could see that the other child was getting madder with each passing moment that no one answered her.

But as Rachel turned her head a little, wanting to look at her more closely, just in case Santana's kicking foot decided to be aimed her way, she was surprised to see that Santana looked sad too. Her lower lip was sticking out in a pout, and it was quivering slightly, her dark eyes glistening as though she were close to tears. She was shifting most of her weight back and forth from one foot to the other- all signs that Rachel had come to associate with, from all her time spent watching Santana, coming right before a tantrum.

She didn't want Santana to yell and try to kick someone, especially not her. But even more so, she didn't want Santana to be sad and cry or feel bad; she didn't want the girl to feel like no one liked her or wanted to share with her. Rachel knew already what that felt like. She was always the last person picked for games, the last person picked for teams in PE, and usually the first person to be made fun of when the teacher wasn't paying attention- often by Santana herself. She didn't like how it made her feel deep down in her stomach and chest, and she didn't want Santana to feel like that too, even if Santana often made Rachel feel that way herself.

So Rachel stood up quickly, leaving her usual spot with Kurt on their mattress, and walked over to Santana, giving her a shy, hesitant smile.

"I can be your partner today," she said somewhat timidly, biting her lower lip. "I can share with you."

For a moment or two Santana eyed Rachel skeptically, hands on her hips as she looked her up and down. But she must have come to the conclusion that Rachel would be acceptable for the day, because she rolled her eyes and huffed a sigh, but nevertheless shrugged her shoulders.

"Okay," she sighed again, seeming from her tone to feel as though she were doing Rachel a kindness rather than the other way around. "Fine. Just for TODAY though."

It seemed a positive sign to Rachel that Santana had left out her usual addendum of "monkey girl" or "weirdo face" when addressing her. She was actually smiling as she lay down with Santana, curling onto her side facing her as Santana lay on her back.

Just as Rachel had known she would, Santana spent the majority of their nap time yanking the thin blanket off of Rachel, sucking loudly on her thumb, and kicking Rachel with every restless movement she made in her sleep, to the point that Rachel's shins were bruised and sore. Santana even rolled to face her and curled her hand around a fistful of Rachel's hair, so that Rachel dared not move for fear of how much it would hurt her to try. And when Mrs. Turner began to gently ask the children to wake up, Santana whined and batted her away with the hand still clutching Rachel's hair, causing Rachel to yelp out in pain at the pulling she received.

But nevertheless, Rachel was well pleased with the afternoon's events, and long after Santana had arisen and resumed running around the classroom with full energy recharge again, she secretly glowed to herself. For Santana had, if not outright chosen her, at least allowed her to step up to choose Santana.


	5. Chapter 5

Teacher's Pet

One day, just one day out of the whole entire year, Santana wanted to be the one that the teachers liked best.

It wasn't that she lacked attention from the adults at school; that certainly was not the case at all. It seemed that Santana couldn't do one single thing wrong or different from other kids, from her point of view, without all the adults pouncing on her and punishing her for it. They didn't yell at her or slap her, like her abuela did, but they certainly did keep her from playing games or getting snack, make her sit out at recess or have time outs or go to the principal's office. Even though they didn't yell or hit or call names, Santana would have rather had any of those responses, any day, than the ones she typically got. Yelling and hitting and name calling was over and done with seconds after it occurred. Being denied fun stuff had to last the whole entire time, and what was worse, was she would have to see the other kids do it and know she couldn't.

But the very worst of it, even more than missing out on fun, was the uncomfortable feeling Santana always carried with her, but didn't quite have the words or verbal capacity to express, that her teachers simply did not like her like they did the other children. They were never unkind or cruel to her, never made what she saw as their dislike or preference for others blatantly obvious, and certainly never said so to Santana herself or to other children. But nevertheless, Santana was sure of it. She observed how they never touched her with casual affection as they did other children, how they never started a conversation with her that was not an instruction or a reprimand, how often they would walk past her, when she was behaving herself, and not smile or look her in the eye. She was never pointed out as an example of good behavior, even when she was trying really, really hard to be good, and she was never picked for Terrific Kid of the month, never the first to share in Show and Tell, never the line leader or the paper passer-outer or the one who got to feed the guinea pig or even clean up after snack time. Santana never led the Pledge of allegiance, at least not after the time she got giggly in the middle of it and started making up her own words, and she never got to go to the bathroom all by herself- someone always, ALWAYS had to go with her.

All these things made it seem very clear to Santana that she simply wasn't liked; at five years old, she didn't have the capacity to wonder why this might be, that she was less trusted or less liked than other children. She could not analyze the differences between their behavior and her own, except for her own shallow understanding of her own feelings and preferences, which were, of course, the most pressing and valid to her. She couldn't come to the conclusion that she could, when upset or angry, be very defiant, emotional, and generally unpleasant for anyone, even adults, to be around; she knew only her own feelings that adults did not like her, with no understanding as to why. This confusion and hurt on her behalf, rather than giving her further insight that could in turn have impacted her behavior for the better, only lead her to becoming more upset and more frustrated more often and faster, which in turn meant no lessened frequency or intensity of her tantrums.

It was a terrible cycle, slow to be impacted, and Santana was too young to even try to break herself out of it on her own. Instead, she simply continued to erupt in tantrums or tears each time she felt herself to be treated unfairly, and as she was given less and less privilege in response, this continued to be frequent occurrence.

Class activity days were some of the worst for this. Art wasn't so bad; no one, at their age, was particularly exceptional at art, and it involved few privileges other than passing out paper and brushes, which most children had a chance to do. PE was Santana's favorite, and due to her general flexibility and natural athleticism, she did receive positive recognition and was even often chosen as "captain" for any games they were taught. She was faster even than most of the boys and knew it, and it was the one place in school where she rarely was reprimanded for her temper; she was too busy enjoying herself to become upset. Music class was iffy; although she enjoyed listening to and making music, via instruments or singing, some of the other children were given considerably more recognition, and Santana often became frustrated, wanting to demand equal attention for herself.

But it was on their library days that the majority of trouble occurred for Santana. More days than not, Santana simply could not muster the necessary self-control to sit quietly motionlessly with other children to listen to a story being read to her, much less to remain quiet for the whole remaining fifteen minutes that she was supposed to be selecting a book of her own to read. And the fact that she was never, ever chosen as a library helper for the day only made it that much worse.

It wasn't that Santana wanted to be the library helper, or at least, that was what she told herself. It was a really boring job. The library helper helped check out books, put them back on the shelf, and during story time, he or she got to sit beside the librarian or sometimes on her lap and hold the book where the other children could see the pictures while the librarian read. Then he or she would get to turn the pages too when she finished each one. It was a boring job, not special or exciting at all. Santana said so all the time and she really, really meant it.

But when she saw other children get picked and not her, when she saw other children leaning back into the librarian's chest and her arm loosely around their waist or shoulders as she read aloud, Santana's chest burned with a fierce envy that she could not have understood, but nevertheless felt keenly. And before the library helper was selected each week, she would try her best to sit very still and look very, very good- only to watch another child get selected, AGAIN.

And this week, after Santana had sat very still and opened her eyes up so wide she wasn't even blinking, and made sure not to whisper or poke anyone, the librarian had STILL looked right past her and picked out Rachel Berry to be her helper, AGAIN. For the fourth time. The fourth time when Santana hadn't even gotten picked ONCE, and even before Rachel had stood up and started walking towards her in her chair, Santana felt her ears burn, that familiar heavy, pressured feeling begin to squeeze around her heart. She slumped, crossing her arms over her chest, and started to kick her heels against the floor, lightly at first, then with more speed and aggression, working herself up into a full fledged fit. And by the time Rachel had settled onto the librarian's lap and held up the book, listening intently while she began to read the first page aloud, Santana could contain herself no longer.

"This is a boring, stupid book!" she burst out with, although the class had only heard four sentences so far and she had not been listening closely enough to be able to repeat a single one of them. "I don't wanna listen to this boring, stupid book!"

As she had known, and even somewhat hoped, would happen, the librarian gestured for Rachel to lower the book, peering at her with a frown, as Mrs. Turner, from the side, shook her head at Santana, beginning to speak to her in the usual strained tone she now addressed her with.

"Santana, shhh. This is our quiet time. Please listen to-"

But Santana was having none of it. If anything, the admonition only further piqued her anger. Here she had been very, very quiet earlier, for a whole minute or two, and they had ignored that and not picked her, they had picked RACHEL, AGAIN! So why did she have to be quiet if it never got her anything she wanted? She didn't want to be quiet! She didn't want to be a library helper at all, being a library helper was stupid! It was a stupid thing to do for stupid people, like Rachel Berry!

"I don't wanna be quiet!" she repeated, the volume of her voice escalating, and she continued to kick her feet, now hitting her fists on the floor too. All the other children were scooting away from her automatically, eyeing her with apprehension, and Santana enjoyed this attention. Now no one was looking at Rachel, no one could listen to the story, everyone was focusing on her, which was exactly what she had wanted. If she didn't get attention for being good, well, she would certainly get it for being bad.

"THIS IS A DUMB STUPID STORY AND I DON'T WANNA BE QUIET AND LISTEN!" she hollered with gusto, and she picked up the closest book she could read and threw it across the room. It didn't hit anyone, but she watched it smack a bookshelf with a satisfying thud and slide to the floor. "I DON'T WANNA, YOU CAN'T MAKE ME!"

It was absolutely no surprise to her when her teacher got up and hauled her to her feet under her underarms, half dragging, half carrying her into a corner and making a make shift time out, right there in the middle of the library. It was not surprising that they continued with the story even as Santana yelled a few more times, and even after she started to cry; this was also business as usual. It didn't surprise her that she was told she would get yet another note home and that she was handed a box of tissues without being helped to blow her nose, without being either slapped or hugged- with very little attention given to her at all. Santana was learning the rules of school now, which differed even more from the difference between her abuela and her mami, and she didn't like these new rules either.

What was surprising was that after all the children had finished listening to the story and were in the middle of checking out books, Rachel Berry crept closer to her in her corner, eyeing her timidly while biting down on her lower lip. What was downright stunning was when Rachel said to her quickly, "You can be library helper next time they pick me, okay, Santana? I'll tell them so," accompanied with a pat on the arm so fast that Santana had barely registered it happened before the other child darted away, rejoining the others. And the most surprising of it all was that it was hearing this from Rachel that made Santana fully stop crying, and the tight feeling in her chest start to disappear.


	6. Chapter 6

Reading

"How come you never do anything FUN?"

Rachel looked up at the sound of a slightly loud and all too familiar voice, her shoulders automatically tensing, as though she were subconsciously preparing to be yelled at, kicked at, or otherwise made the brunt of the other child's anger. Given that it was Santana Lopez speaking to her, and she had become accustomed to the other child often behaving in this way with what seemed to Rachel to be little provocation, it was not that much of an overreaction on her part.

But Santana was simply standing at the edge of the reading corner, where Rachel was curled up on the floor, pillows comfortably arranged around herself, a book in her hands, arms crossed over her chest as she looked at Rachel in a manner that seemed not angry, but rather genuinely curious. The little girl's voice was loud, even somewhat strident, but she didn't seem upset with Rachel or upset in general.

Still, Rachel could not be sure that she had misread the situation, as she so often seemed to with the other children, and she certainly couldn't' be sure that she wouldn't do or say something accidentally to set Santana off with her reply. So she gripped the book a little more tightly, half expecting Santana to snatch it away or rip out pages from it, as she replied cautiously but earnestly.

"I do. I'm reading. Reading is fun."

"It is not, it's boring," Santana scoffed, rolling her eyes as she uncrossed her arms, putting one hand on her hip. "Mrs. Turner reads all the time and I don't like it, you have to sit still and be quiet and the story is always dumb. You're weird if you'd rather sit here and READ instead of do fun stuff like play blocks and horses."

Santana pronounced the word "read" as though it were disgusting to even think about, let alone say, rolling her eyes and twisting her mouth as she spoke.

"It isn't," Rachel insisted, beginning to forget her initial trepidation about addressing Santana as she sat up straight, lowering the book fully to give Santana her undivided and increasingly passionate focus. She shook her head at her, her dark eyes opening wide with conviction as she continued, "Books are fun, Santana. You can only play a few ways with blocks and ponies but books can be anything. Books are about anything you could imagine and books are very good for your brain. If a book is really good it makes you want to sit still and you don't even notice because you feel like you're inside it with all the characters going where they go and you're moving the whole entire time. If you would listen when Mrs. Turner or the librarian, Mrs. Goodwin, reads to us, then you would like books and you wouldn't mind anymore."

"You just say that because they like you and not me," Santana countered, and now both hands were on her hips, her voice taking on a resentful, argumentative tone, but her lower lip was sticking out, and Rachel thought she looked sad, even if she sounded mad. "They like you way better. Everyone likes you way better."

"No they don't," Rachel said feebly, biting her lower lip, but even as she said it she knew it was true.

The other children didn't like her better than Santana, at least, not unless Santana was in the midst of a temper tantrum or being particularly mean to them- they seemed to think that Santana was fun and funny and interesting to play with, even if she could be scary or mean or too loud. Rachel, though, they seemed to think of as too much of a know-it-all, too much of a rule follower, too resistant to rough play or mess or emotional displays. Rachel was different, or as they put it, "weird," and she was to be alternately avoided, ignored, or mocked.

But Santana wasn't incorrect about the teachers. Although they would never say as much, she was pretty sure that they liked her better than most of the children in the classroom, and Santana in particular. Whereas Santana was often wild, emotional, and attempted to bully or boss other children or even adults, requiring frequent corrections, time-outs, and supervision, Rachel could always be counted on to be on task, appropriately doing her assigned activity or work, and doing it well without need for assistance. Rachel never hit, shoved, yelled at, or in any way hurt or threatened other children, Rachel never needed to be told twice to do or stop doing something, and Rachel was always in fact eager to help teachers or volunteer answers or demonstrations. Rachel had never, ever needed a time out since kindergarten had begun, whereas Santana did on a near daily basis. Although teachers never said that they preferred her, Rachel could hear a difference in their tone of voice when they talked to her, could see a softness in their smile compared to the strain they expressed to Santana, and it was always she who was chosen to do the more desirable tasks and privileges in the classroom.

Santana knew this too; in fact, the librarian choosing Rachel for an activity the very day before had been the provocation of another outburst from Santana. This was no doubt still on the little girl's mind as she scowled at Rachel, practically daring her to deny her words.

Rachel knew better than to do so. Instead, biting her lip, she looked down at the book in her hands, then up at Santana. Taking a deep breath, she blurted out, "Why don't you come listen to me read? I promise it will be fun. Just…maybe you could try it?"

She didn't expect Santana to say yes. She didn't even expect her to refrain from mocking her for the suggestion. But instead, Santana frowned at her, eyeing her for a few moments. Then, heaving a sigh, she walked forward, flopping down next to Rachel on the cushions and flinging herself back against the pillows Rachel had so carefully arranged. Scooting in closer to Rachel so she could see the pictures in the book the girl was holding, she gestured impatiently.

"Whatever. Read, then."

And so, after an initial nervous intake of breath- she wasn't used to being so close to Santana, and it was still somewhat intimidating, given her unpredictability- Rachel obeyed, beginning to read aloud. She tried to put expression into her voice and to take on different voices for the characters, just as her dads always did when reading to her. The average person observing would have no doubt thought her to be wildly overacting, but for Santana, a child who was frequently overdramatic and overreacting herself, this seemed to in fact flag her interest.

Rachel was not unaware of Santana moving in closer to her as she continued to read, until Santana was actually leaning her shoulder into Rachel's, her arm against Rachel's arm. It was not quite a cuddle, but it was more deliberate physical contact than any other child had so far ever before initiated with Rachel, and it was from Santana Lopez, no less- something Rachel never would have expected to happen, but realized, in those moments, that she was very pleased about.

She didn't say anything, though, didn't give in to her urge to put down the book and hug Santana or even to lean back into her. Instead she continued to read, pretending not to notice Santana's weight against her, the other little girl's breath occasionally hitting her hand as she turned pages, and she tried not to smile too widely.

When she had finished the book and closed the last page, she snuck a look at Santana, wanting to gauge her reaction. The other child had been quiet throughout the length of the story, and relatively still, not even squirming nearly as much as she usually did when asked to do anything requiring sitting down. Santana had also not pulled away from her, and her face was soft and thoughtful, as though she were still thinking of what had just been read to her. Rachel almost hated to address her, for fear that it would break the odd peacefulness between them, but after a few seconds she swallowed, then asked tentatively, "Did you like it?"

Santana shrugged one shoulder, slowly pulling back from Rachel as she seemed to consider her response. "It was okay," she said finally, although still in a quieter tone than she had before. "Blocks are way better. That was sort of okay though."

"But it was still fun, right?" Rachel persisted, leaning towards Santana earnestly, encouraged by her reply. "Maybe we can do it again sometimes. Maybe some days you can play blocks, and some days I can read to you. Maybe-"

"You weren't really reading," Santana declared, her tone decisive, even as she shook her hair back from her face and stretched her legs out in front of her, lightly kicking her heels against the floor. "You were just making that whole thing up. You can't really read. We don't learn that until next year."

At this judgment from the other girl, Rachel's eyes widened, and her mouth dropped open. Immediately she shook her head, set on defending herself and her abilities from what she viewed as a rather insulting dismissal.

"I can too! I taught myself how before I ever went to school here! My dads helped me a little but I mostly taught myself!"

"You didn't teach yourself right then 'cause you weren't really reading," Santana insisted, shaking her head. "No one reads in kindergarten. You just made that whole thing up."

Snickering, she got to her feet, pointing at Rachel and yelling out, "Rachel is a liarrrrr!" before darting back into the main play area. Within moments she was busily knocking down Puck's block tower with a sparkly My Little Pony, making dinosaur noises as she did so and laughing about it, dimples popping into view in her cheeks. Standing up from her corner, Rachel watched her with her arms folded over her chest, unconsciously pouting to herself. For the first time, she was genuinely angry at Santana, more so than when Santana called her names or kicked at her, more so than when Santana mocked her or got upset at her. To Rachel, Santana had just insulted her intellect and her honesty simultaneously, and she was smarting from it.

But part of her anger was hurt as well…because she had enjoyed those few minutes of time alone with Santana, with the girl leaned against her, focusing all her attention just on her. She had hoped that maybe things would be different, that maybe now they could be friends. But if Santana was right back to teasing her and calling her names, well, it looked like that would never happen at all.


	7. Chapter 7

Sick

Santana Lopez prides herself on being the bravest girl in her entire kindergarten class- no, even out of all the other kindergarten classes too. She knew that she was the only girl who would play football with the boys and not care about being tackled or getting dirty. She was the only girl who would walk right up to someone who had a ball or toy she wanted and simply take it away from them, instead of going to the trouble and time to try to negotiate. She never got upset over skinning her knees or the blood that would come from it, and she would in fact look with fascination at someone else's injury rather than making faces or getting grossed out like other little girls. She would always climb the highest in trees and hang upside down from the highest spots on the jungle gym, and she would always make her swing go the highest in the air before jumping off. Santana was no scaredy cat and she made sure everyone knew it.

But there was one thing for which she had a weakness, one thing she simply could not stand to witness, look at, listen to, smell, or in any way be exposed to. Whatever her stoicism or bravery for anything else might be, Santana could not tolerate someone vomiting anywhere within her vicinity.

So when Rachel Berry, who had been looking very pale and lifeless for most of the morning, not even putting up her hand to volunteer answers or brightly informing everyone of factual information that Santana considered boring and stupid all day, put up a slightly drooping hand and whispered to their teacher that she felt sick, Santana's eyes grew wide, and she jumped to her feet while simultaneously shooting her hand up in the air, bouncing urgently on her toes as she fought for their teacher's notice.

"MRS. TURNER! I gotta go! MRS. TURNER!" she almost hollered, real urgency and anxiety in her tone. But Mrs. Turner barely paid her any attention at all, her eyes briefly flickering over Santana and then past her, giving her only one brief instruction before focusing on the other child.

"Santana, sit down and wait to be called on, you do not call out or jump up from your seat without permission. Rachel, where is it that you're hurting? Do you need to be excused to the restroom?"

"I…my stomach-" Rachel started, and Santana's features stiffened, becoming even more anxious as she remained standing, waving her hand frantically.

"Mrs. Turner, I gotta go!"

"Santana, sit down, I asked you once already," the woman reiterated, fixing a momentary stern look in the little girl's direction before beginning to walk towards Rachel, her brow creased with concern. "Rachel, come to the bathroom, we can get the nurse if needed-"

But Rachel was already getting to her feet, running to the trash can beside the teacher's desk. She had barely dropped to her knees beside it before she began to vomit, her small body shuddering with the force of it. As Mrs. Turner hurried towards her, reaching to push her hair back from her face and to hold the trash can steady, not wanting her to miss, most of the other children squealed or shrieked, making faces or jumping to their feet, as though fearing that even from a distance, Rachel could somehow soil them.

But Santana went above and beyond the others with her own reaction. No sooner had she heard the tell-tale noises of Rachel becoming sick did her own face began to drain of color, and although she squeezed her eyes shut and clapped her hands over her ears, the smell nevertheless wafted to her nostrils before she could find a way to block this too. Although she was attempting to block herself off to any awareness of Rachel, past examples of vomiting she had witnessed began to enter her thoughts and mental visions, and before Santana could do anything to stop herself, she too was vomiting.

The next five to ten minutes in the classroom were utter chaos. Mrs. Turner and her teacher's aid were faced with the unpleasant task of taking Rachel's trash can and setting it in the corner to be cleaned, contacting the janitor, steering all children away from Santana's mess and the two ill children themselves and attempting to busy them with activity while controlling their comments and disgust aimed towards Rachel and Santana. and then there was the task of the nurse arriving and attempting at gathering up Rachel and Santana themselves to take them to the nurse's office.

Rachel was compliant enough, although her legs were weak and wobbly, her face still pale; she would walk, holding the nurse's hand, when she was told that her fathers had been notified to come pick her up. But Santana was another story. The little girl didn't want to move from her now-kneeling position on the floor, let alone to be walked down the hallway to the nurse's office. She didn't want to accept the wet paper towels the nurse tried to offer her to wipe off her dress front and face the best that she could, nor did she want to let the nurse do it for her. She wanted to remain on the floor, hunched over and crying, even as her chest pulled painfully with the force of her tears and her stomach continued to roil, unsettled.

"I want my mami," she wept, in response to the nurse's attempt to get her to stand up, and she shook her head forcefully, tears dripping down her cheeks, small chest heaving. "I want my mami…"

When Noah Puckerman made a comment about her smelling, then mimed gagging and vomiting, Santana did not yell back at him or threaten to punch him, nor did she make a gesture to do so. Instead, her crying intensified to a near howl, and she dug in her heels, refusing that much more adamantly to willingly get up for her teacher.

"I want my mami! I want my MAMI!"

It was not Mrs. Turner, nor her aide, or even the school nurse that got Santana to her feet and to begin moving down the hallway. Instead, it was Rachel, grey-faced, solemn Rachel that approached the sobbing child, gingerly reaching out and patting her shuddering back. It was Rachel who timidly spoke over her cries, even as she gulped and swallowed frequently from the smell of the other little girl's sickness so close to her.

"Santana…they are going to make us feel better," she told her softly, her eyes wide and soft with empathy for the other child. "They are going to get your mami, okay? We have to go to the nurse so she can make us feel better and get our parents. You won't feel better until you get up and get clean and then your mami will come…okay?"

Santana sniffled and gulped in several shuddering breaths, raising her hands to scrub at her still-streaming eyes, but she did look at Rachel after a few moments, and she did slowly get to her feet. In fact, she even let the other child keep her hand on her back- and after a few seconds, she reached for Rachel's hand, holding it tightly in hers.

If Rachel was surprised by this, she didn't show it. She held Santana's hand, and as the two followed the nurse out the door, Rachel whispered to Santana, leaning close. "You should not listen to them, Santana. They are being very mean right now," she told the other little girl earnestly, as some of the other children giggled and called out mocking comments at them at their retreating backs. "Just don't say anything, okay? It's okay. You are going to feel better soon. My dads always make me feel better so I'm sure your mami will too."

She held Santana's hand all the way down the hall to the nurse's room, and once seated on the cot inside, she held her hand there too, even as Santana sniffled and sobbed, her eyes shut even as she squeezed Rachel's hand in one hand, rubbing her eyes and under her nose frequently with her other hand. Rachel didn't say much else to her; she was concentrating on controlling her own nausea. Normally, the brunette would have been more upset herself at being ill, but with Santana beside her, so clearly distraught, a strange sense of protectiveness and compassion for the other child had impacted her, causing her own discomfort to seem considerably less to her than it normally would. Instead, she was focused on Santana, wanting the other little girl to feel better, wanting her to know that they would eventually be okay.

So in the nurse's room, as they both waited for their parents to come for them, Rachel continued to hold Santana's hand, absently swinging her legs over the side of the examining table they had been told to sit on as she intently focused all attention on the other little girl. She even dared to reach up to pet Santana's hair briefly as she spoke gently to the other child, ignoring the continued churning of her own stomach.

"It's okay, Santana. Your mami is coming. She'll make it better. Do you know what my dads do when I'm sick? They change my clothes for me and they give me a bath in bubbles, and they give me lots of drinks and ice cream sometimes, and soup. And they read me stories and sing me songs and we can watch my favorite movies. My favorite movie is Funny Girl…have you seen that? It's exceptional. I want to be just like Barbra Streisand when I grow up. I also get lots of hugs and kisses. It hurts to be sick but it's only for a little while, and it will get better."

It seemed for a little while that Santana was listening to her, and even calming down. Her crying had subsided to sniffles, and she had let Rachel talk to her and pet her hair, had even let her keep hold of her hand. Rachel, as tired, achy, and nauseous as she had felt, had felt good about how she was helping Santana, had even almost forgotten that it was she, not Santana, who was actually ill.

But then her stomach had cramped up hard, and she had found herself dropping Santana's hand, jumping off the examining table, and running for the trash can beside it to vomit for the second time. As the nurse had come to attend to her, rubbing her back and wiping at her face, Santana had lost it all over again. She hadn't even made it off the examining table before she threw up again in response to Rachel. This time, she had tried to hold the vomit back by putting both hands over her mouth, but this had only succeeded in her soiling her hands and arms as well as her clothing. And this time, there was no consoling her, and Rachel herself was feeling too sick to try.

"I'm all gross!" she howled, holding her arms out at herself at arms' length, sobbing so hard that she was almost gagging, nearly making herself sick yet again simply from the forcefulness of her tears. "I'm gross and smelly…and my tummy hurts….and my mouth is nasty…I want my mami, I want my mami, I want my mami!"

It was at this time, as the janitor attempted to clean the floor and replace Rachel's trash can, and the nurse attempted to clean the bawling Santana the best that she could, without actually stripping her down, that one of Rachel's father's arrived. As Mr. Berry came into the room, he had eyes only for Rachel, still hunched on the floor over a new trash can bag. Squatting down beside her, he immediately began to rub her back and stroke her hair, his voice obviously gentle and concerned as he addressed his daughter.

"Baby, I'm so sorry you're not feeling well. You'll come home with me while your daddy is at work today, and if you're still sick tomorrow, your daddy will take care of you while I work, okay, honey? We'll take care of you, baby, it's going to be okay? Do you need to throw up again?"

When Rachel shook her head, Mr. Berry took her into his arms, holding her for a few moments in a gentle embrace and kissing the top of her head as he continued to rub her back. Santana watched, even through a storm of tears, as the man cradled the other little girl, as Rachel's arms wound around him, her face burying in his neck, and even as she observed this, focused on her own misery, she felt a strong stab of envy that she could not have put into words, tempered with equally strong grief.

As much as Rachel had assured her that her mami would come, the reason that Santana was so upset, the reason that she could not calm down, was that she knew her mami would not. It would not be her mami but her abuela would take her home, and it would not be her mami, but her abuela, who took care of her. There would be none of the things that Rachel had described her fathers doing for her; there would be no one coming to speak sweetly to her and reassure her, no one to come scoop her up and rock her and hold her, as Rachel's father was doing for her now. There would be none of that until her mother came home from work, and that was if Santana wasn't already asleep. Santana knew this, and watching Rachel with her father hammered this knowledge into her so much more strongly that she let out a renewed howl, unable to voice this in any other way than how she had already been stating this, pressing both fists hard against her eyes as though to prevent herself from having to see the other child getting exactly what she so badly needed.

"I WANT MY MAMI!"

She didn't expect anyone to acknowledge her; she didn't' expect anyone to care that she was upset, other than to try to make her quieten. So when Mr. Berry, still holding Rachel, turned towards Santana and even stepped towards her, addressing her aloud, Santana was almost stunned out of her tears.

"I see you're not feeling very well either, are you, sweetheart?" he said to her kindly, shifting Rachel to one hip and still rubbing her back rhythmically even as she came closer to Santana. "I'm sure they called your mother, honey, and she'll get here just as fast as she can. How about this, though, why don't Rachel and I wait here with you until she can get here? I'm sure it won't be long."

Looking down at his daughter, he asked her, "Rachel, I know you're not feeling well, baby, and we need to get you home, but is it okay if we wait for a few minutes until your little friend here can be with her mommy?"

When Rachel nodded against his shoulder, he kissed the top of her head, then sat down beside Santana on the examining table, addressing her directly. "We'll keep you company, sweetheart. Now tell me, what is your name?"

Santana was sniffling and sobbing still, unable to draw in her breath enough to answer. It was Rachel, breathing into her father's neck, that answered for her.

"That's Santana, daddy. Santana Lopez."

"Santana Lopez. Well, that's a very pretty name. Did you know, Santana, that there is a whole band named after you? And your name, it means saintly. That's a lovely name for a little girl to live up to," Mr. Berry told her softly. He reached out to stroke back some of Santana's hair from her face, then, reaching for a tissue from the box beside the table, offered one to her. "Here, sweetheart, why don't you wipe your face and blow your nose? It's hard to feel better with a dirty face!"

Santana accepted the tissue from him, scrubbing it across her cheeks, but she was still sniffling frequently, her breathing coming in hiccupping gasps. When Mr. Berry reached to pat her gently on the back, both he and Rachel were startled when the other little girl suddenly reached out to him, wrapping both her arms around his arm and hugging it fiercely, leaning into his side. She was still crying a little, seeming to find it difficult to stop. Mr. Berry, shifting Rachel to one knee and keeping a supportive arm around her, extracted his arm from Santana gently and instead wrapped it around her shoulder, lightly patting the other little girl's arm.

"Hey, sweetheart, you'll be okay," he told her softly, unknowingly echoing his own daughter's words to her. "You'll feel so much better tomorrow. It will be okay."

But the entire atmosphere of the room changed when Santana's appointed guardian for the day came for her. As Alma Lopez stepped into the nurse's room, her shoulders drawn up, her face set into a grimace even before she saw the figures inside, a noticeable change came into the air, a heavy tension that had been absent before. And when the older woman took in the sight of her soiled, teary granddaughter, leaning into the circle of Mr. Berry's arm, her expression darkened, her mouth flattening into a harsh, thin line, and her brows drew together so sharply she appeared to be barely swallowing back a scream. She swallowed, then strode forward, her voice intent and barely controlled as she addressed her granddaughter insistently.

"Santana, you are filthy. If you were ill, you should have asked to be excused to take care of the matter. I know you certainly are able to speak up as you frequently do so whether or not it is appropriate, why would you not do so when you were ill? Stop carrying on and come here….and turn HIM loose at once."

Almost immediately, Santana obeyed, trying to swallow back her tears as she reluctantly shrugged out from under Mr. Berry's arm, again rubbing the tissue he had handed her over her face as she slid to the floor. She didn't reach for her abuela, nor address her; she seemed to know better than to try, though her body was still angled towards Mr. Berry and Rachel, her eyes on them, as though she were still wanting, or perhaps hoping, to be left back with them. Mrs. Lopez did not touch the child, nor address her again; her eyes were instead fixed, narrowed, upon Mr. Berry, her voice fierce as she now spoke to him.

"I can care for my own grandchild. I thank you to refrain from putting your hands on her in the future."

With a terse calling of the little girl's name, she then left the room, with Santana slowly trailing after her. As Rachel remained huddled in her father's arm, she looked after Santana's retreating form, beginning to feel that for the first time, she could understand just why it was that she had wanted her mother- and specifically her mother- so very badly.


	8. Chapter 8

Tag

From where she sat on her swing, deliberately having chosen it due to its location on the far end away from the other children, set slightly apart from them easily being able to bump or otherwise bother her, Rachel slowly kicked her legs back and forth, focusing not on speed or distance, but rather on simply creating a breeze as she drifts aimlessly through the air. She is not concentrating on swinging, or on creating fun for herself; she is instead watching the other children and their more carefree mode of play.

Rachel has never been the type of child to run about shrieking and hollering and chasing other children; it has simply never struck her as a natural impulse or action to undertake, and it has never seemed to her like it would be particularly enjoyable. Shouting simply for the sake of shouting is wearing on the vocal cords, and running without a destination in mind seems to her as though it would be overly tiring when she could have been dancing instead. Rachel dislikes getting sweaty while in her nice clothing, and she would not like to fall down and skin her knee and rip or stain her clothes either without good reason for it.

She doesn't understanding other children's enjoyment of ball games; it has always seemed pointless to her that they would become so focused and intense on who has a ball or whether a ball went into or through a net. She doesn't understand the point of games like keep away or tag for those reasons. Why would she want to keep a ball from someone; if they want it, why can't she just let them have it, or why can't they all take turns using it? why would you chase someone just to hit them and then turn around and run because they want to hit you back? Hitting and chasing is scary to Rachel, especially when playing with a child like Santana Lopez, because she might hit considerably harder than you were prepared to receive.

So Rachel rarely participated with the other children at recess. She generally only watched, telling herself that their play was silly as it was. Truly, she knew, even had she wanted to play, if she had gone up to ask them, most of the children would have probably told her no. So she watched them, Santana in particular, because out of all the children on the playground, Santana was one it was difficult not to notice.

She seemed to want to be everywhere and do everything every recess. She would play ball with the boys and then jump rope with the girls, climb the jungle gym and swing the swings and jump off from both. She was up and down the slides, nearby trees, and across the monkey bars and glider as fast as Rachel could register she had ever been there at all, often shoving other children out of her way so she could get to them at record speed. When she played tag, she was liable to get excited enough to scratch other children by accident when she reached out to grab at them, or to slap them so hard their skin reddened or they stumbled, nearly falling. Santana was constantly falling down and tripping other children, getting small scratches and scrapes, and getting into yelling arguments as well. But every time she would pick herself up, rarely even bothering to dust herself off, and start off running again, and minutes after she had yelled at someone, she was back to laughing so hard her dimples displayed themselves in her cheeks, her dark eyes gleaming with genuine joy.

Watching her, Rachel found herself envying how much fun she seemed to be having, and wondering how it was that Santana could do something and make it seem so much fun, when she herself could try it and dislike every moment of it. She found herself wanting to try it with Santana, just for the sake of fun, but every time the words died as Santana passed her by, and she never got the courage to ask. She didn't want to be forced to hear Santana tell her no….but she did want, just once, to play with her, to see if the magic Santana seemed to encounter could spread to her as well.


	9. Chapter 9

Music

Santana could never quite figure out whether she loved music class in school, or whether she completely despised it.

It had been bad enough in kindergarten, when they had mostly learned songs and beat on simple instruments that everyone could play, like triangles or tambourines. But they were in first grade now, and they were supposed to be learning to play real instruments, like the xylophone and recorders and drums, and they would have people who sang solos, not just everyone together in a group. Santana had been excited at first to learn this, already envisioning herself enthusiastically beating on drums and singing with gusto as all the other children applauded and were very, very impressed with her and how awesome she was. She had anticipated this with great interest, so that for the first few weeks of school, she had been very excited to go to music class, eager to show how much she deserved to be the one picked for the best parts.

But as she should have found predictable, it hadn't worked out like that. Instead, Santana was never picked for the good instruments; she was still handed the same dumb ones she had already used in kindergarten. She was never picked for solos either, even when she sang as loudly as she could over everyone else just to prove how good she was. Instead, both honors went to other kids, the ones who were quiet and sat in their seats without shouting out that it was their turn today to use the drums, or that they thought the song they were supposed to learn was dumb and they knew a way better song they could sing.

And most of all, those honors went to Rachel Berry. It seemed, to Santana's increasing frustration, that Rachel was the teacher's pet everywhere they went, but music class was the worst of it all.

It just wasn't fair. No matter how loud and how well Santana sang, Rachel could sing louder than her and she sounded better too, even if Santana hated to admit it even to herself. No matter how much Santana wanted to play an instrument, Rachel could already play piano and recorder, and she got picked for an instrument every single time because she could already read the music too, even though there weren't even any words on there telling her how to play. She just knew how to read those stupid little dots on sticks, like some kind of miracle. All Santana could hear every time she went to music class was how exceptional and talented and good at everything Rachel was, and the best she could hope to hear for herself was that she had stayed on beat in playing the dumb tambourine.

So Santana stopped trying in music class. She stopped volunteering to sing and play instruments and instead started slumping, scowling, in her seat, chin stuck out and arms crossed over her chest as she declared to anyone who would listen that this was a dumb, stupid class, and only dumb, stupid geeky people even wanted to do music anyway. No one could ever make her do dumb music if she didn't want to.

But every time Rachel sang, she felt shivery in her tummy…and every time the entire class sang a song Santana really liked, she couldn't help but sing along too, even if she tried to be really quiet. And most of the time, she couldn't help but smile.


	10. Chapter 10

Sleepover

Rachel had been thrilled when she was given the invitation to Hayley Matthews' sleepover. Even though the invitation had not been handed to her, as it had been with every other girl in their first grade class, but rather dropped onto the edge of her desk by Hayley's thumb and forefinger, as though she couldn't stand to hold onto it any longer than she absolutely had to; even though Hayley had not looked her in the eye, and several girls had giggled and made faces or loud, whispering comments when she let it drop. Even though Hayley had made sure to inform her, after all the invitations had been passed out, that Rachel had not been invited because she wanted to invite her, but rather because her mother had made her invite all the girls in her class and not leave Rachel out, Rachel didn't mind, at least, not very much. She knew that Hayley wouldn't have invited her because she wanted her to come, but it didn't matter to her much. She was invited to her very first sleepover, and this was very, very exciting.

Rachel had made sure to take the time to really consider the clothing and etiquette of a sleepover, studying movies, books, and sites on the internet to make sure she had down the details just right. She had made her fathers buy her baby-doll pajamas, had them put her hair in pigtails, and she had especially purchased a sleeping bag, just for the occasion. She had walked up to the front door of Hayley's house nervous, but beaming, prepared to have the time of her life. She was prepared for popcorn and movie watching, whispering and secret-sharing, hair-braiding and nail-painting, and even a pillow fight, although she had decided in advance that she would stay to the side with that. She didn't want to get hit in the face and possibly damage her nose, which could in turn damage her vocal chords.

But Rachel figured out her mistake right away, when she arrived inside the house and saw that none of the other little girls were already wearing pajamas; they were still dressed in jeans and t-shirts, shorts and tank tops, and her difference in appearance caused immediate whispers and giggles- not ones that she was included in, as she had envisioned, but ones solely about her. And Santana Lopez had outright mocked her.

"Oh, are you already gonna go to sleep?" she asked her mock innocently, even as her dimples in her cheeks and her glinting eyes revealed that she was laughing at her. "That's too bad. You're gonna miss out on a lot of fun stuff, but you're boring and don't like fun stuff so I guess that's okay with you."

"No, Santana, I'm not ready for bed yet, I simply thought that in a sleepover you are supposed to wear your pajamas," Rachel tried to explain earnestly. "I do like fun stuff. Except if you mean pillow fighting, but I can participate in any other activities of a sleepover. Except for spin the bottle, but I really do think we're much too young for that."

But Santana was already laughing at her, and inciting the other little girls to laugh at her too.

"Ewww Rachel wants to play spin the bottle with GIRLS! She wants to kiss girls, ewwww!"

The other little girls giggled, looking at Rachel and calling her "girl kisser," but at this, Rachel was beginning to be offended rather than embarrassed. Her chin lifted high, her dark eyes taking on a stormy appearance, she raised herself up to her full height, small as it was, as she answered them back fiercely.

"I do not want to kiss girls! But there wouldn't be anything wrong with that if we were older and ready to engage in a romantic relationship! My dads are both boys and they kiss all the time!"

This response only seemed to provoke the other children into even wilder giggling, and they nearly collapsed into a heap together, seeming to find Rachel's reply completely incomprehensible to the point of being silly or untrue. Only Santana blinked up at her, her little mouth drawing into a thin line as she put one hand on her hip, no longer laughing.

"My abuela says that's bad," she informed Rachel, narrowing her eyes at her. "She says your daddies are doing a sin and they're disgusting. She says they shouldn't never have touched me when I got sick last year and she made me take a really long bath 'cause they're sick too, she said. That's probably why you're so weird, 'cause your daddies are bad."

Rachel felt her ears begin to burn, her hands knot into fists, and before she could stop herself, her eyes filled with tears. She didn't wait to let them fall, not wanting Santana or the other children to see them. Instead she turned and ran towards the bathroom, aware of the other children, still talking about her, left behind.

She thought about calling her daddies to come get her then, but then Rachel thought about how sad they would be, knowing that she didn't have a good time and that other children were calling them bad. When she emerged from the bathroom, chin lifted high, taking slow breaths to quell her nerves, she made up her mind to stay even if the other children were still mean and didn't understand. And that was what she told herself- Santana and the other children didn't understand. Her daddies said so and they must be right.

But the rest of the evening passed fairly miserably for Rachel until bed time. Although Hayley's parents stopped any teasing they witnessed, the other little girls soon proceeded to simply ignore Rachel, not including her in games and storytelling, barely allowing her to remain on their outer fringe. She watched them run around chasing each other, laughing and shouting, putting shaving cream on each other's faces and braiding hair, and she was not a part of it. She stayed to the side, and when the others were laying out their sleeping bags, preparing for sleep, she was on the outer edge of the group- beside Santana, not because Santana wanted her there, but because everyone else knew that she kicked in her sleep. And Santana had made her displeasure with the arrangement obvious.

"I don't wanna sleep by Rachel!" she had protested, kicking her feet against the floor and scowling darkly. "I won't kick no one! You're all being mean!"

She was oblivious to the fact that she herself was inadvertently being mean by making a fuss about her sleeping arrangement, but Rachel remained silent, hiding her face in her pillow and pretending she didn't hear. When she felt Santana flop down on her sleeping bag beside her, she bit her lip, preparing herself for a very long night.

She had sort of expected to be awakened at some point in the night by feeling Santana kicking at her through her sleeping bag, but she hadn't expected, when she nudged Santana back with her own legs and attempted to curl up into a ball, to hear a sharp shuddery breath from the girl's direction, then what sounded like continuous muffled sobs. When Rachel started to sick up, concerned but still groggy, she squinted, making out Santana's huddled shape in the darkness. The other child was lying on her stomach, her face buried in her pillow, her back shaking with her tears as she clutched at the pillow's edge.

Rachel's eyes opened wide, and she reached for Santana's shoulder hesitantly. She didn't want the other little girl to hit out at her or be scared when she touched her suddenly, but she also wanted instinctively to help.

"Santana?" she whispered, leaning close to the other child's ear. "Are you sick? Santana?"

The other little girl's crying picked up in volume and tempo even as she pressed her face even harder into the pillow, but she didn't shrug off Rachel's hand. She continued to sob, not responding, as Rachel awkwardly began to pat her back, unsure of what else to do, but increasingly concerned.

"Santana? Does your tummy hurt? Did you have a bad dream?"

It took a few minutes before she could understand what Santana was saying, her voice muffled by the pillow and strained by her crying. "They're gonna get me. They're gonna come get me…I'm scared. They were gonna get me…"

"Oh…it's just a dream," Rachel said with some relief, although she did cast a nervous glance around to make sure of it before she answered the other child. She continued to pat Santana's back, a little more assuredly as Santana continued to accept this from her, her voice still pitched in a loud whisper. "No one's really gonna come get you, Santana, it was only a dream. You can go back to sleep and you won't have any more scary thoughts if you can have some good ones now."

"I don't care…I want my mami," Santana sniffled, lifting her face up from the pillow slightly, even as she hit it with her fist. "I want her."

That was understandable to Rachel; when she had bad dreams, she wanted her daddies too. She kept her hand on Santana's back, still speaking in what was more like a stage whisper than an actual one as she continued to talk to Santana.

"Do you want me to tell Hayley's mom to call your mami to come get you? I can. No one will make fun of you, everyone has bad dreams."

It didn't matter to her then that Santana had mocked her earlier that evening, that the rest of the little girls had done nothing to make her feel welcome. Santana was upset now, Santana was scared and wanted her mother, and Rachel could forgive it all with her empathy for her now. Just because Santana hadn't been nice to her didn't mean she couldn't be nice to her too.

"I can't call my mami," Santana told her, sniffling, and she turned her head a little, taking in a deep breath, as her eyes flitted up towards Rachel's from where Rachel remained hunched near her. "She's gotta work tomorrow so I'm not s'posed to go home with her after tonight, I gotta go with my abuela. And she'd be really mad if I made her come get me."

She sniffled again, her voice softer as she wiped her hand over her face. Looking down at her, Rachel bit her lip, thinking. She had seen for herself a few times how stern Santana's abuela could be, and she certainly remembered Santana parroting her words earlier in the evening. Her brow furrowing, she thought, still absently patting Santana, before a solution came to her.

"Well…how about you just go to sleep then? You won't think scary things…because I'll do what my daddies do for me. I'll sing to you until you go to sleep and it will be nice songs so you think happy thoughts. You could even have a whole musical in your dream, wouldn't that be nice? I love it when there's music in my dreams, it's so refreshing to wake up to. So you just lay back and close your eyes," she gestured for Santana to do so, getting herself more comfortable lying beside her, propped on one elbow and turned to face her. "And I'll sing. It will be good practice for me in keeping my voice low during high notes too."

Santana frowned faintly, again rubbing her fists over her eyes, and sniffed again, eyeing Rachel doubtfully as she considered what the other child was saying. "Your daddies seem nice…but they're bad," she whispered, the words carrying no harshness to the tone; if anything, Rachel thought she sounded sad. "My abuela says so."

"But they aren't," Rachel whispered back, widening her eyes at her. "I promise. Some people just think that, is all, but they really aren't. My daddies say that people are afraid of them because they don't understand how they love each other, but they love each other just like your mommy and daddy love each other, and that isn't bad, it's just different. People are afraid of them but they aren't scary, or bad, they're just different. Just…just like your dreams aren't really scary when you're awake because they're not really real, only when you're asleep and think they are," she added, and although this was a bit of a stretch, Santana seemed to accept this, nodding slowly as she started to close her eyes. "My daddies aren't really bad and neither are your dreams because they aren't real. So just keep your eyes shut and listen to me…"

She scooted a little closer to Santana in her back, keeping her mouth near the other child's ear as she began to sing, pitching her voice low and soothing, almost a lullaby in tone. Rachel watched as Santana's face relaxed, and gradually the six-year-old's head drooped over towards Rachel's shoulder, coming to rest there. Rachel hesitated, continuing to sing quietly, and then she let her head come to rest against Santana's, closing her eyes as well. When Santana's hand crept into hers, she was already nearly asleep and barely noticed the slightly damp fingers curl into her own.

"Ewwww, I told you, Rachel likes GIRLS! Look at her with Tana!"

Even before Rachel was fully awake the following morning, she felt her stomach flip over, sick with dread at what was to come. She could feel Santana's fingers still in hers, the other girl's head against her, and she knew, just knew that Santana would pull away, loudly declaring that she did not like girls, and especially Rachel Berry. She expected Santana to behave as though the other night had never happened, or even to blame her closeness to Rachel on Rachel. She cringed, eyes tightly shut, bracing herself for the insults.

But instead, Santana kept her hand in Rachel's for a few moments, sitting up with her chin jutted out, dark eyes flashing at the other children as she faced off to them. Small shoulders squared, she shot back, "So what, girls are cooler than smelly boys anyway. So shut your face…and anyway, Hayley, you don't have to worry, you're way too ugly for Rachel to like YOU."

Even as she pulled away from Rachel then, beginning to banter back and forth with the other girls and no longer paying her any mind, Rachel was beaming, even as she kept her eyes closed. Because for Santana, this was an almost Herculean act of kindness, to simply not mock her when given ample opportunity. It was almost like declaring that she was her friend.


	11. Chapter 11

Valentine's Day

Like every other major holiday, Rachel Berry took Valentine's Day very seriously. It wasn't about the candy and cupcakes and parties, as most of the other children in her first grade class seemed to think, nor was it about teasing on who liked who and who was going to marry who. Rachel knew very well that this was silly; the candy and cupcakes and parties had nothing to do with real love, which was, of course, what the day was actually about. They were also much too young to legally marry, at least in America, and Rachel was certain she would never do that until she was at least 25 and had already gotten a Grammy and several starring roles in Broadway.

Valentine's Day, she knew, was a day where everyone was supposed to show love for everyone, regardless of whether that person was nice to them or not. It was sort of like Christmas without the silly myth of Santa Claus hanging over it; everyone was nice to everyone without fear of being punished or denied presents if they weren't. Valentine's Day was about inclusion, whether or not someone deserved it. Everyone in the class had to give everyone a card or candy, if they were bringing any at all, and everyone was supposed to say nice things even if every other day of the year, they hated each other's guts.

Of course, Valentine's Day was supposed to mean you were especially nice to those you really, truly liked or loved, and Rachel made sure that she went above and beyond to meet the day's purposes. She dressed in her best red dress, complete with pink ribbons in her braids and pink and white striped socks, although normally she would never do so, since red and pink were clashing colors. She had made vegan pink-frosted cookies for the class, which she noticed no one had touched, despite the careful label declaring them free of any of the most common allergens. And she had worked laboriously on making special, personalized cards for each of the children in her class, taking several days before the actual holiday to complete them.

Noah's Valentine had a traced motorcycle with the words "You drive me crazy, Valentine!" written on the inside; Kurt's had careful drawings of hearts and flowers, all colored pink, with the words "You make me feel tickled pink" on the inside. Finn's Valentine had a picture of a baseball and a bat, with the words "You're a winner!" on the inside. Her teacher's Valentine had a glittering red apple with the words "You're the apple of my eye." But it was Santana's Valentine that had given Rachel pause, for she wasn't sure what the girl would like, or what she wanted to say to her at all.

Rachel wasn't exactly sure what Santana thought of her; for that matter, she wasn't sure sometimes what she herself thought of Santana. The other little girl was not very nice to her, more days than not. Santana was short-tempered, often insensitive or even cruel in her comments, both to Rachel and to others, and she was often calling Rachel names or making fun of her for her physical appearance, her preferences and interests, and her personality. If Santana wasn't being mean, she was often outright ignoring her or simply seeming not to notice Rachel at all. Rachel knew that even when Santana made fun of her, she simply didn't register very much in Santana's world. She wasn't important to her; if Rachel left school and never came back, she had a feeling that Santana might not even notice.

But even so, Rachel couldn't seem to really dislike Santana. Because the little girl was also funny sometimes, even if it was in a mean way. Because Santana was lively and interesting to watch, even if the things she did sometimes completely shocked or scandalized Rachel. Because Santana was smart and pretty and looked just the way Rachel herself would like to look, and because all the other kids liked her or pretended they liked her, even if she was mean to them. Because sometimes Santana was sort of nice to her, and sometimes, even when she was mad, she let Rachel be nice to her too. And because even when Santana was screaming and being really, really bad, Rachel could tell that she was really sad too, and she was pretty sure that Santana was sad all the time, even if she didn't always act like it. Because even if Santana didn't like Rachel much, Rachel still wanted Santana to like her.

So she spent more time on Santana's card than she had on anyone else's, thinking and thinking about what she should say to her. And in the end she had simply written on the inside exactly what she thought. She could think of no silly pun or poem that would say it the same way.

"Dear Santana, I think you are very pretty and very smart and I wish people liked me like they like you. I am sorry you get mad and sad so much and I like when you are nice to me. I think we should be friends because I think you really are nice. Love Rachel Barbra Berry."

She had decorated the inside with glitter and bright colors, hoping that Santana would find it pretty. And when she had dropped the valentine in Santana's decorated bag, her heart had beat a fast tattoo in her chest, and she had been unable to restrain herself from sneaking frequent glances at the other girl, wanting to see her reaction when she opened it.

It had seemed to take Santana forever to get around to opening up her cards. She had first messed around with the other children, joining in with the teasing and flicking and throwing paper airplanes, and she had been more focused on drinking punch and eating cookies and candy than she had been on reading cards. There had been, of course, the incident where Puck stuck a super-glued Valentine on the back of Santana's braid, and she had retaliated by pouring her drink over his head. Both children had been escorted to separate corners for time out, and Santana had then had to recover from the tearful rage this had provoked her to. It was a good 30 minutes and near the party's end before Rachel finally saw her getting around to looking through her cards, and even then, it seemed to take her forever to find Rachel's.

Rachel had watched, almost holding her breath, as Santana opened it, her brow furrowed, her lips moving silently as she read the words to herself. When Santana continued to look at the card, Rachel could not quite read her expression; the little girl was still frowning, but her eyes were soft, her lips flickering between the frown and a small smile.

"What are you looking at?"

Rachel's head jerked back forward, where Finn was eyeing her curiously. She flushed, realizing then that she had been craning her neck obviously to look at Santana, and she quickly shook her head as she began to dig into her own bag of cards.

"Nothing."

She dug through all her cards, carefully reading each hastily scrawled name signed, and noted that not one of them was homemade. Several contained teasing or mocking comments which made Rachel's face burn and her chest grow tight with suppressed tears, but when she came to Santana's card, bracing herself for an insult, she was surprised to find none present. Instead, Santana's card to her was a cartoon picture of Wonder Woman, hands on her hips, declaring, "Valentine, you save the day!" And on the back was Santana's name, printed in large, awkward letters.

That was all that was written, only her first name, but minus insults, it was enough, and Rachel smiled widely.


	12. Chapter 12

Snails

Now that she was in second grade, Santana loved story time at school. Not at the library- she still harbored harsh feelings towards the librarian, who still seemed to dislike Santana almost on principle- but when her teacher read to them in the classroom, Santana never minded the break from regular academic work to sit back, with nothing more expected of her than to listen and enjoy the story. At seven years old, she had learned a modicum of self-control and had developed as well an ability to sit still, at least for limited amounts of time. Now that she and her classmates were second graders, they were all too grown up and mature to be a babyish "helper" when they were being read to, so there was no competition as to who would sit with the teacher and turn the pages. There was therefore nothing for Santana to resent anymore about story time, as she had last year and the year before. She could now simply sit back, occasionally whispering or giggling with other little girls in her class, and if not enjoy the story, at least be able to tolerate it with fair behavior on her part.

And this day in particular, Santana was very much enjoying the story. Their teacher had chosen a Shel Silverstein book to selectively read from to the class, and the silly rhymes of the poems were painting very colorful pictures in her head.

She giggled along with the other children in her class, sitting up with bright eyes and a wide smile as she listened to the antics of children with long names who wouldn't take the garbage out, children who had eaten their baby sibling, people with sneezes so big it couldn't be contained by a whole circus tent, and her very favorite- a playful warning about why, exactly, children should never stick their fingers up their noses. At this last poem, Santana's giggles had become full on belly laughs, and she leaned forward, smiling so widely her eyes squinted up as she waited for another poem to be read.

There was one child, however, who didn't seem to be sharing her mirth. Rachel Berry, sitting slightly apart from the others on the carpet in the reading area of the classroom, had been sitting with her elbows on both knees, propping up her chin in her hands and looking very much unimpressed with the general selection of the stories. Santana had heard her muttering comments to herself that were nevertheless loud enough to be heard at the conclusion of each poem, such as "Garbage is not funny. That little girl should be ashamed of herself for not recycling as well, doesn't she realize that she is contributing to our planet's decline?" or "Anyone who blows their nose or sneezes into a table cloth has very, very bad manners, that is so rude and unsanitary!"

Santana had done her best to ignore Rachel, although she had badly wanted to reach back and kick her or pinch her or pull her stupid braids for being so annoying and dumb when she was trying to listen to poems that were, too, very, very funny, even if Rachel didn't think so. But poem that was the warning against picking noses had been the last straw for Rachel, which then became the last straw for Santana as well.

As the teacher read about "sharp toothed snails" that would live inside people's noses, biting off rings, fingers, and nails if stuck inside, Rachel had bolted upright, her back rigid as she stared at the teacher, aghast. She had looked around at the laughing children surrounding her in seeming horror, her mouth open, and her hand flew up in the air, waving frantically for a moment before she blurted out what it was she wanted to say, not waiting to be called on.

"Mrs. Morris! Mrs. Morris, I do NOT agree with this! This is terrible!"

Mrs. Morris exhaled, her eyes briefly rolling to the ceiling, as they so often seemed to when speaking with this particular seven-year-old among her students, and she kept them there briefly before she addressed Rachel again.

"Yes, Rachel, I can see that you appear upset. But these are intended to be humorous poems, they aren't intended to be taken seriously-"

"But they ARE serious, Mrs. Morris, that is not a joking matter, it isn't something to laugh about!" Rachel insisted heatedly, her eyes opening even wider as she began to gesture intently to make her point. "First of all, as a vegan, I cannot accept people mocking and laughing at any snails that are being left unfed in such a horrible way. Snails cannot exist on fingers and nails and rings, it would make them very sick to try! Also, snails cannot live in someone's noses, it is physically impossible. No snail could exist, and no nose is large enough-"

"YOURS is, Rachel," Santana shot back, raising her voice over the other little girl's as she turned to face her, glaring in her general direction as her hands went to her hips even in her seated position. "It's not REAL! Shut up, I wanna listen to more poems and you're ruining it, running your big mouth!"

"Santana, Rachel, that's enough," Mrs. Morris admonished, even as Santana's mouth now dropped open in a mirror of Rachel's, and she turned her glare towards the teacher now.

"Mrs. Morris, she started it! I was listening to the story like we're supposed to, and she just keeps running her mouth about snails that aren't even real like a big dummy-"

"Snails are very real, but I refuse to accept being told that they live in my nose," Rachel insisted, folding her arms over her chest and lifting her chin. "I also think it's shameful to try to make children afraid of snails by saying they will eat their belongings and body parts. Snails don't even have teeth, they certainly don't bite people. If children read these poems and become frightened that snails will bite their fingers off, they will be more likely to step on them and try to kill them when they see them, and that is wrong. As a vegan and an activist for animal rights, I do NOT like this poem. I-"

"I'm gonna step on YOU," Santana threatened, her voice rising. As she got to her feet, starting towards Rachel with both fists up, Mrs. Morris spoke again over both of them, her voice just sharp enough to show them that she meant business.

"Girls, don't make me send you both to the principal's office! Santana, you will keep your hands and your threats to yourself, no one is stepping on anyone or touching them in any way. Rachel, you do not have to like the poems, but you do have to sit quietly and allow other children to enjoy them."

She resumed reading the story, but although it appeared to the casual observer that order had been restored, there was a continued unease between the children as Santana continued to frequently turn her head, glaring in Rachel's direction. As for Rachel, she continued to sit very straight, her arms crossed firmly over her chest, an insulted look on her face as the reading continued.

When the story time had finished and the children were instructed to go back to their desks, they were asked to draw a picture of one of the poems they had just been read. Rachel took her time with this, displeased with this assignment too, and eventually settled on drawing the most realistic and anatomically correct drawing of a snail she could, complete with anatomic labels; she even got up to borrow the "s" encyclopedia to be able to do so with accurate information. It was while she was busy at work on this, hunched over her drawing, that she felt a folded note hit her elbow. When she looked up, she could see Santana passing by her desk to get back to her own seat, a sharpened pencil held up showily in her hand.

Rachel knew that Santana had asked to sharpen her pencil just so she could deliver the note. Although she knew better, she felt her heart skip a beat, an excited anticipation grip her chest as she reached to unfold it.

But the note was not the typical notes of little girls passing to friends, gossip or drawings or games. Instead, Santana had drawn for Rachel a little girl with a very large nose and very large nostrils, with a helpfully labeled snail, baring sharp teeth, nestled inside both nostrils. Santana had labeled the girl in question as "Rachel Berry" and had given the snails inside crossed eyes, with another label declaring them as "dead". At the bottom of the paper Santana had printed, "They ate too many fingers!" and in smaller letters, "STOP TALKING WHEN STUFF IS FUNNY! You are dumb!"

Staring at the picture, Rachel felt her cheeks grow red, her lips press into a thin line as she blinked back tears. It wasn't the words, or even the drawings of the snails, however, that really got to her. Repeatedly her eyes kept drifting to the large nose of the girl labeled "Rachel Berry," as she remembered Santana's comment about her nose, big enough to house a snail.

Did Santana really think her nose was that big…did she really think she was that ugly?


	13. Chapter 13

No girls allowed

"I hate you, Noah Puckerman!" Santana declared, her voice heated, rising almost into a shout. She was a head shorter than the other child, and even at eight years old, already smaller in frame, but this never seemed to deter her from being ready and willing to fight him- or any other boy who aroused her anger. Whether or not the teachers on the playground were watching, and whether or not she was going to get in trouble for it, Santana, if feeling insulted enough, always seemed to have no difficulty in deciding to rush into a fight, and even though most of the third grade boys were larger or roughly the same size that she was, she still won out about as many times as she lost.

For one thing, Santana had no qualms about fighting dirty. She knew which boys were reluctant to hit or really try to hurt a girl, and she used that to the best of her advantage, going in for the hit whether or not they were ready or guarded enough to do so. Third graders were supposed to be mature enough to have the self-control not to fight, their teachers said so, but Santana Lopez would kick, hit, punch, spit at, or throw things at any boy- and sometimes any girl- who crossed her. It made her fascinating, but often frightening to watch or be around, and by third grade, Rachel had learned to keep her distance, lest she be made the object, if not of attempted fighting, of mocking on Santana's behalf.

By third grade, the school social hierarchies were already beginning to lock into place, and Rachel had long ago resigned herself to the fact that she would never have many friends, or even any at all. She would never fit in easily with the other children, would never be the one they were jostling to be partnered up with or even the one they would share secrets with at the lunch table or walk with on the playground. It became Rachel's new measure of success simply to get through a day without being overly teased or made to cry, and often it was Santana who would keep this from being a success.

It wasn't that Santana truly seemed to actively dislike Rachel any more than she disliked other children. For Santana, anyone who stood out in any way seemed to be opening herself up to a free-for-all mocking; it was as though she thought to herself that if Rachel was being different in some way, or did something to personally annoy her, than she "deserved" or was "asking" for Santana to be mean to her in return.

Rachel had tried, for a time, to fit in with the other children, to speak up less and blend in more. She had even tried to alter how she dressed, for a day or two, just to see if jeans and t-shirts would genuinely buy her acceptance. But it had felt so uncomfortable and strange to her, and the children had simply ignored her for most of those days, that she had quickly reverted back to her usual behavior. It was sad not to have friends, but it wasn't as hard as not being who she was already, at eight, firmly accustomed to being.

Still, it was hard sometimes, to watch other children on the playground and know that she could not hope to ask to join in their play. And as she watched Santana yelling at Puck, chasing after him across the playground, she busied herself plucking clovers, carefully examining their number of leaves, even as she watched Santana angrily confronting a group of their male classmates by the jungle gym out the corner of her eye.

She watched Santana come stalking back to a group of her female friends, talking to them with angry gestures and an expression resembling that of a thundercloud. She was so engrossed in watching the other child that she barely noticed at first that one of the clovers in her hand had four leaves.

Rachel smiled, fingering it softly, as her mind began to explore the possibilities of the luck it could bring her. Maybe today would be a good day, with no teasing at all. Maybe today would even be fun. Maybe if she kept this clover, every day, all her life, every day would be a good one. Maybe she could put it in her sock and take it with her as a grown up to New York, and she would immediately be discovered for Broadway. Maybe-

She was so busy thinking of the possibilities in her mind that she didn't at first hear Santana calling her name, until the impatient edge coming into it entered her ears. Her head snapped up, and she pointed to herself in surprise, mouthing "me?" without truly expecting that Santana did mean her- or if she did, she would doubtless be meaning only to mock her. But Santana nodded, rolling her eyes, and shouted back at her again.

"Come here for a minute, Rachel, we need you!"

This was definitely not words she had ever heard out of Santana Lopez's mouth in regards to herself. Rachel blinked again, now very much suspicious of what it was she was being called into, but she glanced down at the clover in her hand, and hope arose. Slowly she began to walk towards her, fingers crossed subtly as she gave her a small, hopeful smile.

"…yes?"

"You're a girl," Santana declared, nodding; she was barely looking at Rachel, but instead at her other friends, that same intense, smoldering expression on her face that Rachel had noticed before. "We need you. I think there's more girls than boys in our grade so we need EVERYONE if we're really gonna get those stupid jerks. We'll show them!"

Rachel blinked, confused, and looked between the other girls as Santana continued to point out and shout across the playground to other little girls she would not normally play with or speak much to, calling them over. It wasn't until the third girl had joined their huddle that Rachel dared to speak up again.

"What's going on? Is this…what are we doing?"

"That stupid Noah Puckerman made a stupid CLUB, and he won't let me be in it!" Santana burst out with, her cheeks flushed with anger that made Rachel at first want to step back from her, but when she understood it was directed at Noah alone, she relaxed, trying to give Santana a small smile. "He said his stupid club is for BOYS ONLY and no girls can be in it, and since I'm a dumb GIRL I can't be! So we're gonna show him, we're gonna have our OWN club with only GIRLS and it's gonna be way more awesome than his stupid, disgusting little club is ever gonna be. He's gonna be begging us to be in it and we'll laugh in his face and knock him to the ground! We'll show him, that stupid little punk-ass. We're gonna call it…what should we call it?"

And as the other little girls began to discuss names, excitedly, animatedly, Rachel absorbed this, feeling her lips curl into a smile as she clutched the clover tightly in her fist. For today, just for today, it had already brought her luck. She wanted included, she was wanted…she was needed. By SANTANA LOPEZ. And that had to be a miracle.

Of course, it didn't last. By the next couple of days, Santana had lost interest in the club and was yelling with Puck over something totally unrelated- when they weren't playing tag or ball games seemingly without anymore animosity. But for those two days, Rachel cherished being included in group huddle ups of fake whispering and giggling and pointing at the boys, at group note passing and even simply standing with them, part of a whole. For two days she relished being picked over all the other boys in PE for teams, for the first and last time in her life.

She looked for days for a second four leaf clover, after the "girls only" club had naturally faded into obscurity, and she continued to carry the first one around, hoping that some of its initial hoped for luck would rub off again. But when she again became the last to be picked for teams, the first to be looked over, ignored, or insulted, and the whispers and note passing began to be about her again rather than the other way around, Rachel again resigned herself to the inevitable. She was not a part of things, she did not have friends, and for as long as she was Rachel Berry, she never would.


	14. Chapter 14

Ugly

"Santana Lopez smells," Rachel could hear even from the front of the bus, although the boy making the statement was seated several rows behind her. He was raising his voice loudly enough that even over the noise level of all the other children, the majority would clearly be able to hear him. "Santana Lopez really STINKS! Santana Dope-ez!"

Although she didn't turn around to check, she knew that it was Robert Lewis speaking; it was usually only Robert and his friends, by the time she was in the fourth grade, who would mess with Santana. By now all the other children, even the boys, had learned that Santana's tongue knew no boundaries and if her tongue didn't put someone in place, her fists and feet would. Still small and slim compared to most children- though still not quite as much as Rachel herself- Santana nevertheless seemed to have no fear of anyone, regardless of gender or size, and Rachel braced herself from the front seat for her response, not yet daring to turn around to observe, but strongly tempted.

All the third through fifth students had been bused together on a field trip to see a play, and all the usual incidents had taken place that went along with prolonged periods of eighty children stuck together on a school bus. Tina Cohen-Chang had gotten carsick and thrown up on Kurt Hummel, Puck and another few boys had nearly got into fist fights after an arm wrestling match went too far, and there had been several more incidents of children losing objects, Artie Abrams's glasses being accidentally- or maybe deliberately- stepped on, and Rachel had done her best to keep apart from everyone, not wanting any of this to become her own personal drama. She had chosen to sit up front behind the bus driver for this specific reason, knowing it was the least coveted seat on the bus and therefore would give her the least likely chances of being involved in drama.

It did, however, still give her a decent chance to watch the ongoings of the other children, because if Rachel craned her neck just right, she could see the bus driver's mirror and most of the children in the back reflected in it. She had been observing the bickering between Santana and Robert for most of the drive now, and it seemed that the larger, stouter fifth grader was not going to let Santana be.

Rachel's fathers had told her, as she got older and the teasing she was subjected to on a daily basis didn't die out over time, that people teased her because they liked her. Rachel could buy that for Santana's sake- she was the prettiest girl in the fourth grade, after all, and Robert constantly seemed to be touching her, even if he was pulling her hair or shoving her arm or giving her a "shot pinch." But she couldn't quite believe it when it came to herself, as much as she might want to. For one thing, it wasn't just the boys who teased her, but the girls too. And for another, she was never included in activities that didn't involve teasing, even if she attempted to insert herself into their midst. There was a mean-spiritedness to the teasing of Rachel compared to the teasing of other girls, a harsher tone to it, that struck her as very different, even if her dads said otherwise.

But Santana never seemed to notice a difference that Rachel thought she did, and she never took her own teasing in stride. As Rachel craned her neck, trying to watch her through the bus mirror, she saw the other little girl hit Robert with her newly acquired purse across the chest, then give him a shove, having to lean far over her seat to do so.

"Yeah, well, you must be a girl because you need a bra!" she shot back, and Rachel's eyes widened, her hand covering her mouth, because she knew exactly why Santana was saying this. It was true that the overweight Robert did have the appearance of breasts, and in fourth grade, where even most girls didn't need or wear bras, this was an insult indeed.

And Robert replied back in kind. Leaning back over the seat and shoving at Santana's shoulders, causing her to fall back against the seat in front of her, he grabbed a fistful of her hair in his hand, leaning close to her as he fairly shouted his retort.

"You still smell, Santana Dopez! Do you know why you smell? It must be all the beans you Mexicans eat, it makes you fart all the time! I know how you Mexicans do…twelve people in a room all farting up your beans together, no wonder you stink! Pee-yew, you need a shower!"

He waved his hand in front of his face dramatically, smirking, and barely managed to flinch back in time to avoid Santana's fist making contact with his face. As Santana leaned way over the seat, cursing in Spanish aloud and trying to get in a good hit, the bus driver called out sharply, having witnessed this too from his mirror.

"Santana Lopez, face front immediately! No, move up front and sit right behind me where I can see you, now!"

Santana was slow to move, her face flushed with rage, and it didn't help matters that Robert, still smirking towards her, had not been addressed at all. As she slowly moved into the aisle, even Rachel could hear his loud whisper to her.

"That's what you get for being so gross, Dopez…you're so ugly you look like a fart."

Rachel expected Santana to turn around and start beating on him again, bus driver instructions or not, even when the driver called a sharp retort to Robert as well. But Santana didn't. Instead, her shoulders drew up stiffly, her mouth flattening into a thin line, and as she slumped into the seat next to Rachel, making sure to remain as far away from her as possible, arms crossed over her chest, Rachel thought she looked strangely sad- not angry at all.

Rachel wanted to talk to her. She wanted to tell her that Robert was being very racist and inaccurate; Santana did not smell, Rachel knew there were only three people living in her home, fourth if you counted that her abuela often stayed there as well, and she certainly was not ugly. But she said none of this, not having the nerve. Instead she continued to sneak glances at Santana until the girl snapped for her to stop looking at her, and then she focused her attention again very intently on the driver's seat in front of them. It seemed a very long ride, with Santana so close.

As soon as they were off the bus, they were supposed to go line back up outside their classrooms. Santana, however, had darted ahead, not waiting for their teacher like she was supposed to. Rachel had been tempted to call this out to her, but decided against it. Instead, she had asked their teacher if she could use the restroom, like she was supposed to. A long, somewhat nervous bus drive had not been good for her bladder, so once receiving permission, she made her way to the restroom on the fourth grade hall, still curious as to where Santana had been headed.

She received her answer as soon as she stepped into the bathroom, and almost knocked straight into Santana. The other girl was standing in front of the mirror across from the sinks, staring at her reflection, her hands in slightly trembling fists at her sides. Her face was flushed, her brow knit with feeling, and there were tears standing brightly in her eyes, still others already having streaked down her cheek, as she shook her head at herself, her lip curled with seeming disgust or distress at what she was looking at.

It took Rachel a moment of shocked adjustment to what she was seeing to understand its probable cause. Santana was still upset over what Robert had said on the bus…it had obviously bothered her, to the point of tears. How many times had Rachel herself stood in front of the mirror with a near identical expression, unhappy with the size of her nose, the set of her jaw, the way her hair was set, her small size and build? How many times had she examined herself, after being told yet again about how she was short, ugly, and dorky, and privately come to an identical conclusion?

She couldn't let Santana think the same thing, she couldn't let her feel the same way, even if Santana herself had sometimes been the one to provoke those same feelings in Rachel. So she started forward, one hand outstretched as though to touch her, bursting out with the thoughts she had already had on the bus.

"You shouldn't listen to Robert, Santana, he is very racist and ignorant and doesn't know what he's saying. You don't really smell like you passed gas, you actually smell very nice, like apples. Is it the shampoo you use? Or do you use perfume? My fathers won't let me use perfume yet, they say I'm not old enough, but maybe you are lucky. It was also very wrong of him to say that you are ugly, or a dope. You're not, you don't get as good of grades as I do but you still do very well and would do better if you did your homework, you know. You're not ugly at all. You're actually…you're very pretty, Santana. Everyone thinks so. Everyone-"

She reached out then to touch Santana's shoulder, but the other child jerked away, even pushing at Rachel's hand. Even as her entire face scrunched up with continued effort not to cry, she shook her head at her, glaring, and her voice came out in a near shout.

"Go away, Rachel Berry, leave me alone! Who would want to talk to you, who would want to look at you- go away!"

Rachel felt tears fill her own eyes, her shoulders sag with defeat, but years of practice helped her to blink them back out of sight almost right away. Slowly she turned and left the bathroom, even as she heard Santana's muffled sobbing when the door shut behind her.

She didn't know why she had expected today to be any different than any other one, but she had hoped.


	15. Chapter 15

Boyfriends

It was a new trend, sweeping through Rachel's classmates, taking over with the speed of a fast-spreading and nearly as deadly virus. It seemed to her that everyone, absolutely everyone in her class was caught up in the craze, swapping back and forth with the intensity, giggling enjoyment, and tears of jealousy of a miniature soap opera. It was as bad as friendship jelly bracelets and Beanie Babies, Pokemon cards or slap bracelets, with less money involved. But the difference between those former obsessions and this newest one was this was no passing fad, no temporary cool thing that would soon be on its way. This would be with them for the rest of their existence, and unlike the others, Rachel couldn't simply buy or trade her way into it along with everyone else.

Boyfriends and girlfriends. All of a sudden, it seemed that everyone in the fifth grade had one, had just broken up with one, or was setting up elaborate plans to capture one, and Rachel didn't know how to fit into that scenario at all.

She had started, initially, somewhat shocked by their daring. It had seemed to her that one day, everyone had been grossed out by the mere thought of touching the opposite sex, unless it was to scratch, pinch, or shove at them, and even holding hands during games like Red Rover would make some kids dramatically mime gagging. She wasn't sure how it had come about that suddenly the same boys who all the girls were disgusted with for picking their noses or making farting noises with their armpits were the same boys that all the girls were competing over- or that the same girls who had stuffed dirty training bras in their pencil case or who didn't wear deodorant were now the ones boys fought over, literally.

It seemed very sudden and puzzling to Rachel, and she had initially reacted with something akin to alarm. She knew that she herself was not allowed to date until she was fifteen, and she had informed all the girls she caught whispering about their "boyfriends" about this, concerned for their safety.

"Don't you think we're much too young to be dating?" she had asked other girls urgently, as soon as the whispers and giggles and meaningful stares and nods towards their male classmates started, if she was anywhere within the vicinity to interject. "We're only ten years old! Most of us are not even physically developed yet! We certainly shouldn't be participating in any physical actions which our bodies are not even properly prepared for yet! Even kissing can give you diseases such as cold sores and herpes, did you know that? Do you know what herpes is? The pictures I have seen are very disturbing, if you catch herpes no one will EVER want to kiss you again!"

Of course, the other girls had not heeded her warning, or even seemed to understand what she was trying to convey to them. They had simply stared at Rachel like she had suddenly sprouted an extra head, and Santana Lopez had put her hands on her hips, rolling her eyes at her and smirking as she took a step towards her, backing Rachel towards the wall.

"Oh, don't worry, Rachel, you'll never get a chance to have to make a decision like that," she snickered, her eyes glinting with amusement. "No boy is ever gonna ask YOU to be his girlfriend. No boy is ever gonna want a short little midget who still wears Osh B'Gosh like YOU."

And it was true. Even as Rachel stood there, her face burning with embarrassment and shame as the other little girls laughed at Santana- but more so at Rachel herself- she knew the other girl was right. Even if Rachel was interested in dating, even if she wasn't concerned about all the possible dangers and the ages of the people concerned, or what her dads would have to say about it if she defied their expectations and worries….even if she could put all of that aside, she knew that none of the boys in her class would ever express an interest in her, Rachel Berry. Even if they did sort of think she was pretty, which Rachel doubted could ever happen, they wouldn't risk saying so or showing it. That would be a sure way to become every bit as much of a public loser as she was, and only Jacob Ben Israel, one of the most frequent booger-picker and armpit-farters of them all, would probably be willing.

Rachel knew that Santana never had that problem. Even though Santana was barely taller than she was and certainly no more physically developed, she, unlike Rachel, wore a training bra, a real one, and was very proud of it. She was always trying to wear tight shirts that would show its outline through, under her jackets, and would take off the jacket, then deliberately bend and stretch in ways that made it more prominent to be seen. Santana's clothes came not from the children's section, like Rachel's, but rather from the TEENAGE section- even though that meant that her mami had to sew up her pants so they wouldn't drag the floor, and the only size she could fit into was a double zero, which Santana made sure to let everyone know as well was very difficult to find in the first place. Santana wore makeup on the days that she could get it out of the house before her abuela or mami saw her do so, and even if it was applied in an uneven and too liberal hand, it was there, just like a teenager, and all the boys thought she was just so cool.

No one chased Santana on the playground anymore to pull her hair or punch her in the arm. Now the boys were actually nice to her, most of the time, and would do things like give her suckers or a penny they found on the ground. The most mean thing Rachel saw anyone do was Noah Puckerman, snapping her bra strap all the time, but although Rachel, the first time she saw this, got indignant on Santana's behalf, beginning to lecture him on being respectful to other's bodies, Santana had just laughed, sneering not at Noah, but at Rachel.

"Grow up, Rachel," she had told her, looking her up and down pointedly. "But you seem to be having a hard time with that."

Rachel's dads still told her that she was being mature and smart, that she would be happy one day that she didn't get involved in silly "crushes" and "dating", but instead was waiting for the right person at the right time. They pointed out to her that it couldn't be real dating when they couldn't drive themselves on a date and didn't even have their own phone to call each other on, and Rachel, when she tried to point this out to the other children, was only shunned even further. She knew, sort of, that these things were true.

But the first time she had heard the other little girls giggling and whispering about who had kissed who, and what it had felt like, and whether or not the boy had brushed his hand over their chest or butt before quickly yanking it away, Rachel had had to look at the ground as her face burned, not only with embarrassment, but with a strange longing she did not quite understand. And the first time she ever walked past the jungle gym on the far side of the playground and caught sight of Santana and Noah, half hidden behind a tree, with Noah giving Santana a quick, open-mouthed kiss before quickly snapping her bra strap and running off, Rachel had stood, her own mouth open, even after Santana snapped at her, for several moments before she had the presence of mind to back away.

The kiss had been brief, had looked slobbery, and was certainly unsanitary. No doubt Santana could get any number of germs or diseases from it, and it hadn't looked like she overly enjoyed it, if the way she wiped her mouth off after and wrinkled her nose was any indication. But Noah had wanted to kiss her. Noah had thought she was pretty enough that he wanted to kiss her, and Rachel's chest had ached for almost an hour afterward, knowing that no one, no one at all, felt that way about her.


	16. Chapter 16

Locker room

Back when she was in elementary school, Rachel had looked forward to moving on to middle school with a barely containable excitement that had approached near glee. The thought of being in a school with more than one story, a school which required lockers and hall passes and homework which was challenging, a school which had extracurricular activities that were not mandatory, but rather chosen by each student, a school where she could choose her own schedule, was a thrilling though indeed. Rachel had all sorts of plans in her head of how her days would go once she reached middle school. She would be stimulated and enjoy all of her classes. She would find other children with liked-minded interests and views, instead of her elementary peers, who always seemed more concerned with what brand of shoe was cool that week or what TV show they had watched the night before rather than their future and their academics. Rachel was certain that in middle school, everyone would be much more mature, much more serious, and perhaps she would finally find an area where she fit in. Maybe she would have friends…maybe even a best friend.

She had high hopes, and she had started her sixth grade year in high spirits with high expectations. But it hadn't taken very long for reality to crash in. Sixth grade wasn't much more academically challenging than fifth, but there were many more rules, and far fewer teachers that seemed impressed with Rachel Barbra Berry, however talented and dedicated she might be. In fact, some of them seemed downright annoyed with her, especially when she corrected their mistakes. It turned out that Rachel couldn't quite have her schedule set the way she wanted to, having a bottom locker meant she was constantly having to either squat and squeeze between people's legs and risk having them angry with her for knocking against them, or else wait until she had a clear opening and then risk being late for class. Lunch was no easier or less lonely simply because there were now snacks she could buy instead, recess no longer existed, and despite all efforts, Rachel had still not found many people she could even term friendly acquaintances, let alone a best friend.

She tried to conquer all of this, of course. She tried sitting at different lunch tables and brightly joining into conversations, introducing herself and her interests and goals, but other children would stare at her as though she were from another planet, if not outright mock her or tell her to leave, rather than take this as her effort to be friendly and welcoming. She tried putting up posters for different clubs, founded, of course, by herself, but no students seemed interested in Barbra Streisand Admiration, Musical Appreciation, or Vegan Support, and she was asked by the teachers to take them down after a few days. Middle school was definitely a let down, but it was the middle school PE classes that Rachel had been most ill prepared for.

In elementary school, PE was twice a week, and all children knew to wear sneakers and PE appropriate clothes on that day or they would not be allowed to take part. There was no changing of clothing, no need for showers, and this made everything much more simple and infinitely less humiliating.

Middle school, and in particular the locker room, was a whole other story. They were given a uniform to wear, and all of them were expected to wear it to class- daily. And this meant having to change in the locker room- daily. In front of other girls. The same exact girls who, if they didn't hate her, at the very least had a deep interest in making sure Rachel knew exactly why and how much they disliked her.

Each day that Rachel headed for PE class, she had to brace herself inwardly, knowing that any possible humiliation might be awaiting her. They might hide her clothes and laugh as she tried to find them, or throw her hair brush in the toilet. They might pour water on her shoes or stick a pad inside them. But even worse than what they might do to her things was the looks they might give her or her body, and the words that might be directed her way.

Sixth grade locker room dress outs had only made it that much more obvious to Rachel that she was considerably shorter, smaller, and less physically developed than nearly all of her peers. At eleven, Rachel was still wearing an undershirt, not even a training bra, complete with a little pink bow where her cleavage should be, and her underwear was cotton, white, and sometimes had a little bow in the front as well. She looked and dressed like a little girl, and the other girls made sure she knew it.

"Who let the toddler in?" was a comment frequently directed her way, along with "midget," "dwarf," "shrub-girl," and "hobbit," the latter three which had been originated by and most frequently used by Santana Lopez. Because it was Santana, for some reason, who was the most relentless about pointing out Rachel's lack of "teenage" undergarments and her lack of breasts- even though, as Rachel had pointed out to her, they were not yet teenagers, but were still only eleven years old.

"Physical development at our age is highly variable," Rachel had tried to explain to the taller girl, the first several times that Santana had laughed and pointed out the fact that she was not wearing nor did she require a bra. "It is very normal for some people our age to already have breasts and even to begin menstruating, but some of us may not begin until another few years, and it is still within the range of normal. Actually, Santana, you yourself look to be of average development as far as height goes, but your breasts are still-"

"Ew, why are you talking about my BOOBS? Are you LOOKING at them? Stop looking at me, you sicko, you're such a freak!" Santana had blurted, immediately covering her bra-clad chest with her hands and turning to face her friends, her cheeks stained red. "Can you believe the little dwarf dork, she's staring at my boobs like a total perve!"

She had put on her shirt then with lightning speed, still talking loudly about how sick Rachel was to be looking at her, how she was probably stunted mentally every bit as much as she was physically. Rachel simply bit her lip and looked away as she continued, not pointing out that Santana had been talking about her physical appearance first, and therefore must have been looking at her as well. She knew by now not to argue with Santana Lopez when her voice reached a certain volume.

But after that she watched Santana in the locker room, when she could manage to do so without the other girl noticing. And what she noticed was that Santana herself, despite what looked like very full breasts to be proud of, was always quick to put her shirt on, how her chest size seemed to shift up and down depending upon the day. And then she saw it one day, sticking out the top of the cup- what looked like some sort of pad, awkwardly shifted inside the bra. Rachel had squinted, outright staring without realizing it, and after a few moments it hit her. Santana was stuffing. Whether she was using a combination of bra pads and other materials, such as tissues or cloth, she didn't know, and Santana changed much too fast for her to be sure without getting much closer than the other girl would allow her to be. But whatever her comments to Rachel about her chest or lack of, Santana herself obviously wasn't happy with the natural size of her own, if there was even anything there at all.

Before she could stop herself, Rachel had gasped aloud, her eyes widening, and this had, of course, immediately attracted Santana's attention. She had frozen, her shirt half over her head, and then immediately pulled it down the rest of the way, smoothing it out by its hem as she glared in Rachel's direction.

"What is so shocking, Flatty Patty?"

"Nothing," Rachel had said immediately, taking a step back from her. She decided then it was a good idea to leave the locker area entirely, and as she tied her shoes, then walked away, she was aware of Santana eyeing her, her hands nervously smoothing over her chest.

The next day, Rachel made sure to get into the locker room early, before everyone else, where she slipped into Santana's locker a book her fathers had given her the year before- "Our bodies, ourselves." She had made sure to highlight all the parts in the chapter about breasts that she felt would most benefit the other girl, particularly the sections reassuring of differences in speed in development. She had watched from across the room, trying not to be too obvious about it, as Santana opened the locker- and then completely ignored the book. For another few minutes Rachel had looked over at her periodically, hoping to see her pick it up, but Santana had dressed and left the locker room without ever even touching it.

Maybe next time, she should try a pamphlet.


	17. Chapter 17

Surrender

Seventh grade, Rachel had always heard, was supposed to be the worst year of a person's life. Bullying and cliques were at their height, awkward physical development or lack thereof in her case was starting, and everyone, absolutely everyone, felt terrible about themselves. She had read and been told over and over that if she could just survive seventh grade, then surely everything would be better from that point on.

What all those people hadn't counted on, though, was the fact that Quinn Fabray would transfer to Rachel's school right in the middle of the eighth grade year…and Quinn Fabray, for some reason, would make it her mission in life to make certain Rachel never forgot exactly how stupid, pathetic, and ugly Quinn found her to be.

Rachel wasn't sure why it was that Quinn got so much enjoyment out of making so many people hate her even more than they already did. She would have thought that a girl like her, who was so easily and widely popular with everyone, would be so busy basking in her throne that she wouldn't even deign to notice Rachel, let alone make a specific and elaborate plan of attack against her. But Quinn never let a day pass by without insults and comments, directly to Rachel's face as well as behind her back, without distributing mocking cartoons and spreading disgusting rumors, and Rachel knew, because she never failed to take credit, that they were all directly traced back to her or one of her groupies.

The ironic thing of it all was that Rachel would have done anything to make Quinn happy, to try to make the girl like her, if only Quinn would let her. Quinn was beautiful in a way that Rachel could only dream of being, Quinn was smart and well-dressed and could so easily make so many people like her. All the boys were in love with her and all the girls wanted to be her, and although Rachel was firmly grounded in her own dreams for the future, that didn't mean that she didn't have fantasies sometimes of being more like Quinn instead. It would be so much easier, and at least for right now, in the eighth grade, so much happier.

So Rachel tried, in little ways, to warm Quinn up to her. She tried to be around her group in the background, inserting what she saw as interesting additions to their conversations, and she tried to offer to lend Quinn pens or other objects in the classroom, even knowing that Quinn would make a public spectacle of not accepting. She tried to always greet her with a bright smile even when she felt like she was shaking in her shoes, and still, Quinn's venom towards her never faltered.

And by extension, nearly all the other children in their grade, and even the grades below, followed Quinn's example. Especially her two instant best friends, Santana Lopez and Brittany Pierce.

Wherever Quinn was, there they were, on either side of her, joining right along with her insults and sly comments, her mocking pranks and rumor starting. It didn't' matter that Rachel had many times defended Brittany against people who called her a "retard" or Santana against the racist "wetback" or "Taco Bell" jokes that were inevitable in middle school, even if they saw her doing it; if anything, Santana would be angrier at her for her defense than the people actually insulting her. It didn't matter that before Quinn had come, their own mocking of Rachel had been sporadic and prompted by personal encounters rather than a daily and intentional basis, an extracurricular sport more than an occasional hobby. They were with Quinn now, and every day, Rachel received evidence of their renewed disgust.

Still, she held out hope for a while that this could change, that through her own efforts and continued attempts at kindness, at least those two girls would come around. Brittany was easily confused, after all, and hadn't Santana sometimes been civil or even nice to Rachel, over the years? Hadn't Santana known Rachel the longest and knew, more than her friends, how Rachel had been kind to her ever since kindergarten? Surely that would make a difference.

It wasn't one particular incident that finally resigned Rachel to believe otherwise, but rather an accumulation of all the previous ones, finally reaching a breaking point in her mind. It had started, in fact, with her simply looking at a sign up sheet.

Rachel had had no intention for signing up for varsity cheerleading for ninth grade, or even junior varsity. She had simply been looking at all of the other sign ups for their upcoming freshman year, intent on scouting out possibilities and signing up for as many as she felt beneficial- which happened to include everything except for most sports. She had simply been standing there when she felt several bodies nearly elbow her out of their way, as though they didn't see her at all, to reach for the cheerleading sign up sheet. Looking up, she had seen Quinn, Santana, and Brittany, each pretending not to see her at all as they took turns signing their names.

Rachel had found their behavior to be very rude, but she had swallowed back her indignation, forcing a smile as she addressed them.

"Oh, so you're trying out for cheerleading then? I'm not surprised, you are all naturally athletic and you certainly look the part, though perhaps Brittany will have to be on the bottom of pyramids as she is a bit tall. And you are all popular as well so you're surely going to make the squad. Good luck all the same!"

She couldn't say that she had exactly expected the other girls to exchange pleasantries with her and wish her luck with her chosen clubs and activities. She hadn't even expected them to necessarily acknowledge that she had spoken. But she certainly had hoped it would be this way, for a chance. Hadn't she spoken pleasantly to them? Hadn't she refrained from mentioning all the times they had been rude to her before? She certainly hadn't said anything to upset them…had she?

But they had all cut their eyes at her as though she had said something incredibly amusing, and Quinn even curled her lip at her, her eyebrow quirking in a style that Rachel had noticed Santana recently picking up as she angled her body towards Rachel in an almost aggressive manner. Sneering at her, she remarked, "Don't tell me YOU are trying out for cheerleading. Our boys would take one look at you in the uniform and run away screaming in terror, and they certainly don't need any further assistance in losing another season."

"It's like looking at that Medusa or the Harry Potter snake…one look and you turn to stone," Santana chimed in, her hands on her hips as she angled herself in a nearly identical posture as Quinn's, and Rachel could see Brittany just behind them, copying their pose as well several beats behind, though the expression on her face told Rachel she wasn't quite sure what either of her friends was talking about. "Maybe she could help us out, though, Q. We could always sic her on the other team."

"Is she sick?" Brittany wondered, cocking her head. "Would she have to kiss them, because that's Rachel and it's gross, even if her lips do look soft. Maybe she can sneeze on them instead."

Santana gave her an indulgent smile, shaking her head at her, but Quinn ignored her, only rolling her eyes as she took a step towards Rachel, invading her personal space in such a way that Rachel swallowed, stepping back away from her.

"Get this straight, Manhands," she said slowly and deliberately, so Rachel could not miss what she was hearing. "You'll never be a cheerleader or anything else that any normal person would ever want to be in. You'll never have anyone who's not a total loser want to date you, and you'll never be accepted by our people or win any favors from us, and we'll never want you around us except to do our homework or to mock your pathetic existence. You will never be anything but a Lima Loser…so stop even trying to pretend otherwise. And STOP talking to us…ever."

Rachel blinked rapidly, turning her head away from the intent glare of the other girl as she backed up a step, needing space between them.

Her head swiveled slowly, looking between Brittany and Santana as she tried to entirely avoid looking towards Quinn- she already knew what she would find in that direction. But Brittany just blinked at her, looking blank, and made no comment, whether to defend or further mock her. Santana too made no sign of defending her. Instead, she smirked, crossing her arms over her chest. It was as though Rachel had never spoken up for either of them, as though they had never heard this, never had one moment pass between them that had been anything less than total disgust or hate.

And there was not even a flicker of doubt or regret in Santana's expression. Not anymore.

"Has all your constant yammering and yodeling deafened you to the sound of any voice but your own?" Santana asked, her smirk becoming more of a sneer as she uncrossed her arms, linking one through Brittany's, the other through Quinn's. "Let me spell it out real slow and clear then." She raised her voice, enunciating her words loudly and distinctly. "Go away. Hasta la vista. Sayanara. Buzz off, scram, flee the coop. Or if you need your own language- exit the premises promptly."

But although she had told Rachel to leave, it was the three of them who walked away, arms linked, laughing to themselves. As Rachel stood, unable to move right away from the embarrassment, sadness, and slow rising anger pressing so tightly against her chest, she bit the inside of her cheeks, her hands slowly forming fists at her sides as she thought about what had just occurred- and the deeper meaning behind it.

It had never hit her for absolute certain, with no hope of any other outcome, until this moment. Those girls, all three of them, but Santana in particular, would never be her friends. It didn't matter what she did or didn't do, how she acted or how hard she tried or how much she might want otherwise. It didn't matter…and this was something she should have known long ago, probably way back to when she and Santana had met on the very first day of school. She should have known then, from her very first efforts to ever reach out to her, that it would never matter.

It didn't' matter that once, Santana had helped her up after Dave Karofsky tripped her and then ran after him, decking him in the face. It didn't matter that Santana had once let her finish coloring with the red crayon, in kindergarten, when it was Santana's favorite color and she really wanted it. It didn't matter that in the first grade, Rachel had been sad on mother's day because she had no mother to make a card for, and Santana had told her she could make a card for her own mami since her mami didn't have but one daughter to make her a card. It didn't' matter that there had been one shining moment, in the second grade, when the two of them won a dance-off in PE and had danced together for joy, smiling broadly and laughing with absolutely no animosity in between them, nothing but happiness in their own ability. Had Santana forgotten all those moments, or had they simply had less meaning in her mind? Did she simply not care about them anymore…or had they only existed in Rachel's mind?

All those times Rachel had hoped, as they were growing up, that she and Santana would gradually be drawn together, all the times that their friendship had seemed possible, even eminent…all those times, and yet maybe they had never really been there at all. Maybe it had been a hope and a wish more than a reality, and the truth was only now beginning to crash down on her.

She and Santana had never been friends and never would be. That was the way Santana wanted it, that was the way she liked it…so it would be best for Rachel if she simply accepted it and preferred this too.

But even so, as she watched Santana walk away, her eyes burned, and for a few moments, all she saw was little Santana, thumb in her mouth, tearstains on her cheeks, reaching out her free hand for Rachel to take in hers. And it took every ounce of will Rachel had not to call her back…to let her keep her back turned, and continue to walk on.

End


End file.
